Before You Kneel
by The Freelancer Collaboration
Summary: Companion fic to In the End, You Always Kneel: The Capitol has destroyed the lives of twenty-three tributes each passing year, and even those who survived have lost themselves in the Games, somewhere along the line. But who exactly were these tributes, in the end? Before you kneel, you stand, and be accounted for.
1. Crossbones

**(A/N) Hey there, NicKenny speaking, launching our newest fic! Many of you are probably familiar with the one-shot fics that we have accompanying our main fics, and this here is our latest one, serving as an companion to **_**In the End, You Always Kneel**_**, and any sequels that it may or may not have in the future! This opening one-shot features Sinthea Schmidt, written by the wonderful Silz, and I hope you'll all enjoy it.**

**After this, one of our admins for **_**ITEYAK**_**, Alex (zxskunkmuffinxz), will be taking over the running and updating of this fic – I'm simply here to kick us off!**

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**Crossbones**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701**

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"_Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art...It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." _

― C.S. Lewis, _The Four Loves_

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It was hard, living in one of the poorer areas of District Six. Sinthea Schmidt was born out of wedlock into bad conditions. Her mother had died in childbirth. Sinthea's father was the renowned Red Skull, the lone Avenger Games victor of District Six. He had abandoned Sinthea to live with Susan Scarbo, her mother's mother – who was a terrigen addict – many years before, and despite her grandmother's pleas, she had never forgiven him for that.

When Sinthea turned seven, she went to work in one of the many transportation factories located in District Six after school finished each day. There they assembled trains, hover-cars, anything that moved, all for the Capitol. Despite these harsh conditions and obviously hard child labour forced on them by the Capitol, Sinthea didn't grow up disliking the rich citizens of Marvel's central city.

But life in the factory was hard. Sinthea didn't have any friends before she went to work there. It just so happened that about a month into her first year of working in the factory, she finally met someone her own age.

Sinthea had packed her lunch for that day in a small paper bag. It was a simple peanut butter sandwich on rye bread. The bread was stale and her small canteen of water was already almost empty from the first half of the day. It was eleven o'clock, time for her lunch break. She got a whole twenty minutes of free time. She couldn't afford to take any more time off – after all, Grandma Scarbo didn't work. Sinthea's factory work was what brought in all the money.

Well, that and her thieving.

Sinthea sat down in the large lunch hall surrounded by teenagers and adults, the only little kid as far as she knew. As she quietly dug into her sandwich, she averted her eyes from all the adults and teens in the room. It was fortunate enough that the factory owner even allowed her to work here for a reduced wage; most kids worked selling wares out in the streets, or begged, until they were old enough for full time factory labour. But apparently being the daughter of the Red Skull, even if said father refused to admit to it, had its advantages.

"Hi there."

Sinthea stopped chewing and looked up at whoever was talking to her. Amazingly, she found herself looking at a small boy. He had tan skin and black hair. He was covered in dirt, and his hands were all greasy from working the factory wheels, she assumed. In his right hand he held a paper bag too, and he put it on top of the table across from her.

"I'm Brock," he smiled, "What's your name?"

"Sinthea," she said, still too surprised to really be on her guard.

Brock nodded, "Do you work here too?"

Sinthea nodded silently, pulling her sandwich closer in towards her chest as Brock sat down. She noted that on his paper bag was a skull and crossbones symbol.

_How odd._

"Do you like pirates?" he asked her enthusiastically when he caught her staring at his bag, "I do! I want to be called Crossbones, and sail the seven seas!"

Sinthea just stared at him.

"We could call you… Sin! Sin sounds like a good pirate name!"

"You work here now?" Sin asked him suspiciously. "I've not seen you around here."

"Just started a week ago. They put me up in the machines. Where do you work?"

"I'm down on the Belt," she replied, "Have been for months now."

Brock looked at her curiously, "My mommy had to 'pull strings' to get me to work here. We know the owner. How come you work here?"

Sinthea glared at him. She narrowed her eyes and refused to answer him. Instead she went back to chewing her sandwich. Finally, when he obviously wasn't going to take her silence as an answer, she snorted.

"It pays good."

"Okay, whatever you say, Sin," he nodded, "Well, I better get back up to the machines. Things can't run without me!"

"Whatever, Crossbones," she said back, annoyed at his use of her new pirate name.

Sinthea finished her sandwich and carefully folded the precious paper bag up into a square, sticking it in her pocket. She didn't dare throw anything away. Once that was done, she headed back down to the Belt, as the workers called the moving conveyor belt process that was on the first floor of the factory.

She clambered down from her seat and walked to the old elevator that would take her down a floor to the Belt. Several other workers were there too, teenagers mostly. The boys laughed at her as she got inside the elevator car.

She spent the day at the Belt, finishing up around eight o'clock that night. When Susan Scarbo came and picked her up outside the factory, she was tired and let out a big, seven year-old yawn.

"How was your day, Sinthea?" Grandma Scarbo asked her as they walked along the road home to their little house.

As the trees passed them by, tired little Sinthea shrugged. "I met a boy."

"Oh dear," Grandma Scarbo said, pretending to be horrified. "You're _much_ too young for that!"

"Not like that," Sinthea crinkled her nose. "Ew!"

Susan Scarbo laughed. "What was his name?"

"Brock. But he likes to be called Crossbones," Sinthea explained, "And he wants to call me Sin! Says it's a Pirate Name."

"Sin! I like it," Grandma Scarbo nodded, "A name worthy of any Avenger Games winner. Just like you'll be someday."

Sinthea nodded, "Yes ma'am! I'll win those Games, you know I will! Just like daddy."

"Just like daddy."

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"My mom got these for me last week," Brock told Sinthea as they lay in Sin's room on her wooden floor, papers strewn out all around them.

The item in question was a bright new box of eight crayons. It was like magic for the little kids – they had never even _seen _crayons before. Sinthea had decided she liked Brock very much, and looked forward to every day off they got, which wasn't many. Today was a Reaping Day, but at seven years old, neither child was old enough to be selected, so they had a play-date instead.

Today they were making flags for their pirate adventures. As Brock had told Sinthea, he had recently gotten a pack of crayons, and each kid chose a colour for their flags.

"I want red," Sinthea told her friend. "You can have any other colour, but I get red."

"Alright," he nodded. "I'll take blue."

Sinthea got to colouring her flag. On it she drew a big, red skull with big red eyes. Brock peaked over her arm to look at her drawing as he drew a large, blue skull and crossbones symbol.

"Is that because of your dad?" he asked her curiously.

Sinthea looked at him in surprise. "How do _you_ know about that?"

"I heard your Grandma and my mommy talking last time I came over. I think it's so cool that your dad is the Red Skull! Your dad's a victor!"

"Yeah." She nodded, but her face was sad.

She never saw her dad. The one time she'd tried to talk to him, he'd told her he never wanted to see her again. She just wished that something she did could impress him.

"Shall we try out our flags?" Brock grinned. "Come on! Our swords are in your kitchen. Let's go!"

They attached the flags to broom handles and brought those along with their swords back behind the big, old house on Chain Road. It was bright outside, and the house backed up to the large square where the Reapings were held each year. The two kids watched as twelve year olds and older lined up to have their DNA recorded and matched, filed into the square, and lined up for the Reaping.

They loved to spar with their wooden swords, swing from the trees, and fight evil monsters. Sin especially enjoyed Reaping day though, because she liked to watch her father sit up on stage. It was the only time she really saw Johann Schmidt. He looked so professional up there, so strong. She wished she could be one of those lucky tributes called that day.

"Hey, guess what?" she whispered to Brock as they stood watching the names getting called. "That's gonna be me one day."

"I believe it," Brock nodded. "You're so strong and fast, Sinthea."

"Come on," she nodded, tearing herself away from watching the Reaping. "I heard there's a sea monster over there. We should go kill it!"

"Aye, matey! Let's be off!"


	2. First, Let's Kill All The Stylists

**Hey guys, it's Alex here with your second one-shot from the accompanying fic ****_In The End, You Always Kneel_****. Written by our lovely writer Canucklehead Cowgirl writing for James 'Logan' Howlett, this is sure to make you giggle as much as it made me. Hope you all enjoy!**

**A quick thank you for all those that favourited and followed this collection! It's all appreciated.**

**The title, for those wondering, is a play on words from one of the episodes of my favourite TV show ****_The Newsroom _but I had to shorten it to make it fit****. I think Shakespeare also used it in one of his plays.**

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**_First, Let's Kill All The Stylists_**

**James "Logan" Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

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_"What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality." _

_\- Plutarch_

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When they finally arrived at the capitol, Logan and Etta were ushered down a long hallway lined with strangely dressed people before being separated and shoved into empty rooms. Moira wished them luck as they closed the doors leaving both tributes a bit confused. Logan didn't like the feel of the place as several people rushed in around him, telling him to strip.

"You're kiddin' right?" Logan growled out in disbelief. He didn't care if anyone saw him naked, but he didn't make a habit out of doing it on purpose.

"No, we need to clean you up so your stylist has a fresh slate. I'm sure you don't have anything to hide. The boys from seven are usually pretty well built," a little pink haired girl told him. "You're really lucky too – this is the first year your stylist has done the Games. She's very excited to get started." The girl took a step forward and made a grab for Logan's buttons.

He knocked her hands away, growling out that he'd do it himself and telling her to back off. He turned his back as he sullenly began removing clothes, the strange little assistants snatching up everything but Fox's medicine bag, which he refused to let go of.

The green haired girl led the way while the pink haired girl openly looked him up and down. He was already fed up. If all of the people here were gonna eyeball him that goddamned hard he'd be more than happy to stab someone in the face the first chance he got.

He fought them every step of the way, insisting they keep their hands to themselves while they blatantly ignored him. He just didn't want to be touched. Finally satisfied that he was sufficiently prepped, they handed him a robe and led him to a wide-open, well lit room where a tiny loudly dressed Asian girl was making notes on a sketchbook. A radio was playing loud music in the background – some awful noise with lots of bass and some woman screeching. She was bopping to the beat, humming along.

She was shorter than him, which was shocking. Few people could manage to make him look tall seeing as he was a towering 5' 3". She looked young, and her taste in colors was an assault on his retinas in the bright white room. Of course, he had to admit, the residents of Seven didn't generally wear anything that bright anyhow. It likely would have been an assault even if she was walking down a street – colors like that simply didn't occur in nature. At least, nowhere Logan had ever been. He wasn't interested at all in fashion, but if the way this woman dressed was any indication, he was in trouble.

She wore a bright yellow trench coat over her tiny frame; oversized hot pink sunglasses were perched on top of her shortly cropped and spiked black hair. Her earrings were massive and the same jarring shade as her sunglasses. She was chomping away on gum, blowing bubbles as she danced in place, seemingly in her own little world. She didn't even look up at him when he came to a stop, her assistants leaving the way they came in when Trenchcoat told him to drop the robe.

He just looked back at her not even considering doing as he was told. He was still staring at her, one eyebrow cocked up and his arms crossed when she finally glanced up at him and stopped dancing.

"Aren't you a little young?" he asked dryly. She looked younger than he was. She also was incredibly irritated as she glared back at him.

"Age has nothing to do with it. I am a professional," she snapped. "This is my job. So – drop the robe so I can see what I have to work with." He leveled his glare at her and reluctantly shrugged out of the robe, narrowing his eyes at her as she froze.

She had been told that most tributes showed some level of self consciousness about being nude. She was told she'd likely have to coax her tribute to allow her to see all of her newest muse. The more experienced stylists said that many of them would try to show some level of modesty and to be prepared to force them out of their comfort zone.

None of this was the case with her tribute. Once he did drop the robe, he didn't look the least bit embarrassed as he puffed his chest out and scowled at her.

"Oh – O – K. Good. Um. … turn around please," she asked, blushing brightly as he hesitantly obliged her. "Alright." she cleared her throat and shook her head, blinking rapidly a few times before continuing. "Well, I don't have to try to make you look more muscular." she mumbled, sketching furiously. Logan looked down his nose at her as she got to work in her notes. He opted to cover himself up again while she was preoccupied. Whatever she was expecting, clearly it wasn't him. His level of discomfort was climbing again. It wasn't his practice to strip for strange women. Particularly if it was going to be so severely one sided.

"Are we done here?" Logan drawled out, clearly over this whole experience and ready to find his jeans and flannel shirt. She looked up from her drawing, appearing to be relieved that he was now covered up again as she gave him a friendly, yet mischievous smile.

"No. Not even close," she said waving at her assistants to come back, the pair of them diving right in to measure every inch of him, twice as he got his feathers ruffled, unused to anyone acting as these people did around him. Every time he'd open his mouth to protest, they'd already moved on to the next measurement, the two of them taking turns one measuring, the other jotting down whatever was called out.

"We have to make a splash. You need to be noticed – a stand out," his stylist said, walking around him as the brightly colored duo continued working. He wasn't sure who to keep his eyes on. "That's what gets you fans and sponsors." Just like that, they were done. Green hair was re-rolling her measuring tape and Pinkie made a few final notations before handing it off to Trenchcoat.

"I am Jubilation Lee – you can call me Jubilee or Jubes - whatever floats your boat," she said with a grin, removing her coat to reveal a tight black leather body suit that hugged her slight curves before she took a seat, gesturing for him to do the same.

"This is my first year on the Games, but I assure you, my fashions are all the rage here." He nearly rolled his eyes as he sunk into his chair.

"Tell me about yourself, please," Jubilee asked with a smile, returning to chewing her gum as she waited for a juicy story. He stared back flatly. What was there to tell? When it was apparent he had nothing to say for himself, she set her sketchbook aside and stood suddenly walking around him again.

"OK fine, don't talk. You've got the broody, angry thing down. We can make that come off as sexy if you don't snarl at the camera too much," she said, running her fingers through his hair. He wasn't liking it. Not one damn bit. He simply wasn't used to this much attention on him.

"You'll need a little trim – I don't want to lose too much though. I think we can work magic with what he have here," she mumbled to herself, holding his hair out, looking him over. She narrowed her eyes as she decided on her best course of action.

He was becoming wildly uncomfortable with her ministrations. Her assistants brought over her scissors and she began quickly trimming his long black hair into a slightly shorter affair. He had no idea what she was up to until she came around to face him and started styling it, looking very concentrated in her work as she crafted it into soft high points on either side of his head, embellishing what his unfortunate cowlicks did on their own.

She squinted at him, tipping her head to one side as she retreated half a step, her hands halfway raised between them as she looked him over.

"That should work," she said finally as she stood back, looking him up and down before stepping forward again and gently turning his head to take in his features a bit better. "We'll need to trim back some of this hair – seriously, I don't think I've seen anyone so hairy."

Before he could complain she dove into her work again, trimming and shaping his facial hair until she was satisfied with her results, leaving him with well-trimmed sideburns and a serious five o'clock shadow.

"We won't give you the big wax job that most of the other tribute boys will get. You'd likely die from blood loss"

Was that a joke?

"I think this …. wild look suits you better anyhow. It'll set you apart for sure," She sat down again, scooting closer and pulling her sketchbook to her. "Everyone will want their hair like this by the time the games really begin. Just you wait." He had a hard time believing that.

"So, what did you do back in your district?" Jubilee asked, elaborating that she didn't care about his job. She wanted to know what he did when he wasn't working. "I want to know all about the real James Howlett."

"It's Logan." he replied. She looked confused, consulting her notebook.

"But it says James -"

"I know what it says, but no one's called me that in years," he said cutting her off.

"Oh. Is there a story to it?" she asked, scribbling in her notes with an excited gleam in her eyes as he shook his head. An alias. How exciting.

"Nothing worth repeatin'," he replied. It took some serious coaxing, but she finally started to get a mental image of the wild woods he lived and thrived in, sketching madly while she wheedled details from him.

"Alright. I've got it now. What do you think?" she asked with a grin, turning her sketch to him. It was no surprise to see her color choices. "If the audience reaction is positive, we may get lucky and be able to echo this look into your arena uniform a little," she grinned.

Yellow and blue. A bright, wide swath of yellow would run from the center of each shoulder straight down both the front and back of his body down his legs to some taller looking work boots. Blue made up the other parts of the design with exception to the yellow stripes at his ribs and shoulders.

He cocked his head to the side a little as he looked at the sketch. She was grinning excitedly. If this girl hit the home run she was hoping for he'd have to wear something similar to this not once, but twice.

"Tiger stripes?" he asked as she enthusiastically nodded her head, practically bouncing off the balls of her feet as she waited for the enthusiastic response she was used to from the people she styled in the capitol.

"Well, it'll be easy to spot the body," he deadpanned. Her mouth dropped. For some reason, she looked as if that simply wasn't an option for him.

"Hey. That is not the right attitude, mister. You'll look fierce. Ferocious. And that's a good thing because your mentor? Not exactly a pussycat. You want people to make the connection that you are the tribute trained by the most vicious victor ever. It has an aura on it. Trust me. You'll be the darker, more handsome version of him, and those stripes, that hair and your lovely blue eyes will only help your case," she declared. "Besides, it would make a tremendous splash should the tribute I dressed win."

Ah. There it was. His living would simply boost her business.

"_And_ I'd get to design your wardrobe permanently." It was his turn to look shocked. He hadn't really considered what might happen if he actually won it. He had no plans to lose, but he just hadn't thought that far out.

"Wait, what?" he asked, probably the first time he sounded even halfway his age since arriving. She grinned wider and threw an arm around his shoulder.

"We are going to be best friends, Logan – you just wait and see!" Jubilee exclaimed with a laugh.


	3. Young Avengers Assemble

**This lovely little one-shot is brought to you by robbiepoo2341, writer of Kate Bishop! It's set two years before her reaping, so we get to see a little back-story to this version of Kate. Enjoy!**

**Hope you're enjoying this little collection, there are plenty more to come! Look for an update towards the end of next week. **

**Don't forget to check out the main fic which can be found on our profile. **

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**_Young Avengers Assemble_**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

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_"One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity, there ain't nothin' can beat teamwork." _

_\- Edward Abbey_

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_Tap, tap, tap._

Kate gasped, sitting upright. She wasn't asleep, not yet, even though it was an ungodly hour of the night. She hadn't been able to sleep. She kept _seeing _things, _feeling_ things.

Hands—grabbing, pulling, hurting. Clamped over her mouth. An arm pressed into her throat.

She felt the tears stinging her eyes, but more concerning was the fact that she couldn't hear over her own heartbeat. Couldn't find the source of the noise.

She was caught, somewhere between trying to run and pulling the covers tighter around herself, trying to disappear. She was tangled, lost.

_Please._

She couldn't make her voice say that word. The plea. The one word she'd managed to choke out—before.

But she couldn't make herself say it now, because she was stuck. Caught in her own terror.

_Tap, tap, tap._

He was coming back. He was going to kill her.

Kate scrambled out of the bed, her fingers curled around the first thing her hands had found, which was, pathetically, just her pillow. But it felt good to hold on to something solid.

Her bare feet hit the floor, and the sound was too loud.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Kate was crying now, actually sobbing, and no one would hear her, because Susan had moved in with her new husband, and Daddy was out who-knows-where partying with who-knows-what people.

She tripped. She'd left her shoe beside her bed, the one shoe she still had on. She didn't know where the other one was.

Her chin hit the floor, and she tasted blood. She was going to _die_.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Kate looked up.

It was just the window. Just a tree in the wind.

Kate started to cry again, in earnest. She didn't even leave the floor, just curled into a ball around the pillow until she couldn't breathe again, and that set off a whole new round of panic.

She was never going to feel safe again.

Kate had no idea how long she cried, but when she was done, it wasn't because she was finished being scared. No, it was because she had started to hiccough.

She climbed back into her bed, taking deep, calming, huge gulps, lungfuls of air.

She twisted her hands in her blanket, willing herself to calm down. It wasn't working.

She threw the covers aside, trying to find something, anything to do to stop the noise in her head, stop the flashes she could see just behind her eyelids, every time she closed her eyes.

She stumbled into the kitchen, fumbling for the light. Her feet knew the way to the pantry, and she grabbed the first thing her hands found. Leftovers from the wedding.

Dried apple rings. Daddy had even sprung for some cinnamon. It was a rare delight.

Kate remembered when she spotted the table full of food, remembered squealing with delight as she tasted her first bite of dried apples.

Now, as she bit the corner, she almost threw up.

She put the food back in the pantry and slammed the door closed, keeping it shut with her back.

She cried again, tucking her knees up under her chin. But there was no one. No one to hear.

The house was quiet, lonely. It had been filled with people only hours ago. People Kate knew, people Kate didn't know.

The urge to run was suddenly overwhelming, and Kate stumbled as she rushed to her feet, her hands clawing at the collar of her bedshirt, trying to unbutton the top few buttons to give herself more room to breathe. Breathing was so hard. It was so hard, and she could still feel the pressure as he . . . .

Kate blinked hard, fighting against the memory.

She was outside now, her feet carrying her into territory she'd never visited. She didn't want to be close to home; she didn't want to be in the merchants' quarters. It wasn't safe; it would never be safe again.

She could still feel his breath—no, that was the wind. It was the _wind_, and she needed to calm down again.

She looked around. She was definitely far from home. She wasn't sure exactly where, but it would be morning soon enough. She could find her way home in the light.

Assuming she made it to morning.

Kate could hear threats all around her, could hear the slightest twig cracking and every whisper of the wind. Why was everything so loud?

And this time, she heard a louder whisper, and she turned just in time to see just the slightest flash of red.

"Hello?" Kate called out. What had she been thinking? She was out of her depth; she was going to get herself killed out here.

But she couldn't go back home, not until she calmed down.

There was no answer, and Kate should have been relieved, but instead, she could just hear her heart pounding.

She took a deep, calming breath. Grabbed the nearest, biggest stick she could find and gripped it like a weapon, the way she had seen tributes do in the Games.

"Show yourself," she demanded. She'd meant to shout it, but it more or less came out like a whisper.

A young man stuck his head around the corner, his hands raised. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," he said. He was smiling slightly, and she recognized him.

She'd seen him before—he was with that group, the kids who had tried to steal food from Susan's wedding.

"_Look, they're my friends; I invited them," she told the Sentinel. _

"_They're not on any guest list I've seen," he grumbled._

"_That's because Daddy didn't bother to invite anyone my age. Or hadn't you noticed I'm bored to tears?" Kate asked, putting on her best Bratty Spoiled Girl face. That usually worked._

_The Sentinel frowned. "They were trying to leave with the food..."_

"_Yeah, we were headed out to go have sort of a picnic of our own. Away from all the stuffy adults," Kate shrugged easily without missing a beat. _

_The Sentinel didn't look convinced, but he must have decided it wasn't worth pursuing, because he went back to talking with the mayor. _

This boy had a shaved head, his dark skin a shadow in the pale moonlight. He was wearing a dark blue, long jacket, and it was only the red-and-white-striped bandana tucked around his neck that had caught Kate's gaze. Otherwise, he was merely a shadow, a whisper in the wind like all her other nightmares.

Kate dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, willing herself to stand up a little straighter and to stop crying. "You didn't scare me," she said defiantly. Then, knowing she sounded unconvincing, she added, "At least, not once I saw who you were." She allowed herself a small smile. "I've seen your little band of misfits in action. Not too scared of you."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the nearest building. It looked like it was falling apart—Kate must have managed to wander into the Seam. "Yeah?" he said, his smile bright against the darkness. "Think you could do any better?"

Kate snorted derisively. "Please. Give me a day and a half, and I'll be running things around here."

The boy laughed. "Yeah, right. What do you know about danger?"

Kate felt herself tense, felt warm breath against her neck as big hands grabbed her from behind—

She straightened up. "More than you think," she said at last. "Besides, I'm a fast learner."

The boy looked her over, his gaze drinking her in. She could feel her stomach in her throat, and she suddenly felt tired, as if the adrenaline had all left her body in one big rush. She took a breath and steadied herself, reaching for the building he was leaning on and covering for her movement with what she hoped was a convincingly confident lean.

Finally, the boy smiled. "Thanks for the offer, but—"

Kate didn't know what made her do it, but she reached out and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to face her. But now that she had his attention, she wasn't going to give in. "I'm _going _to join your group," she said through gritted teeth. "Because let's face it; you need someone in your group of merry men to keep you from doing stupid things like the stunt you tried to pull today."

"That's not—"

"And what's more," Kate continued right on, "you're going to help me learn how to fight. Sticks, fists, I don't care."

The boy looked like he wanted to pull away, but something in Kate's eyes must have changed his mind, because once he met her gaze, he hesitated. Just for a second.

"Follow me," he said at last.

She let go of his arm and walked quietly behind him as he ducked in between a few shambling houses—if they could be called houses—before they stopped at something that would hardly qualify as a shack.

But they didn't go in the shack; they went down, down into what must have been a storm cellar or something.

"Anyone home?" he called out as he offered Kate a hand to climb over the rotting wood to get inside.

"Eli, if you wanted to bring a girl back, you could have given the rest of us a heads up so we could—"

"What? Eww, no," Kate said quickly, breaking up whatever the frizzy-headed someone in the shadows was about to say.

The someone leaned forward, out of the shadows, and Kate recognized her. She'd been the only other girl in the group, and boy, had she been hard to convince to quiet down and go along with Kate's lying-to-the-Sentinels plan.

The girl grinned at her, her tongue between her teeth as her gaze swept over Kate anew. "Well," she said at last, "at least we know she's got good taste. Anyone who'd _want _to hook up with Eli—"

"Shut up," the boy—apparently Eli—said, his face bright red.

The girl clucked her tongue and leaned back, her face hidden again but her smile still bright. "So, what's the princess doing here, then?"

Kate frowned at the way the girl called her a princess, like she was somehow disgusting. Kate looked down at her pyjamas and realised they were the brand new ones Susan bought her as a "thank you" for reigning Dad in and making sure the wedding was at least something close to what Susan wanted and not just what he wanted.

"The _princess_," Kate said, repeating the word with particular relish, "is going to help you and your gang with your little racket."

The girl in the corner snorted, and two boys—they looked alike and moved together so closely that they had to be twins—poked their heads up from beds that Kate hadn't seen in the corner.

Kate stood her ground and resisted the urge to stamp her foot. "I'm _serious_," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Give me a few days, and I'll be running this place."

"You told me a day and a half," Eli pointed out.

"You keep your mouth shut," Kate said, waving her hand at him without looking.

The girl in the corner leaned forward again, grinning. "Chica's got stones, that's for sure," she said, running her tongue over her teeth. "And I could always use another woman around here. Especially after Cassie …"

The room suddenly felt still, and Kate realized after too many seconds of silence that Cassie was the name of the girl who had been Reaped only yesterday. She was in the Capitol that very second, getting primed and prepared to be killed.

Well, that explained why the group had been stupid enough to try to rob the biggest wedding in the merchant sector. Kate would have done something just as stupid if someone she knew had been Reaped.

"Let me help you," Kate said, to break the silence, leaning forward with all the earnest pleading, puppy-dog eyes she could muster. Then, switching tactics, she stood a little straighter. "If I slow you down, I swear, you can kick me out after a month. That's all I ask—one month."

One of the twins, a boy with darker hair and a somber smile, gave a soft sort of laugh.

"Could be fun," he said at last, seeming to direct his comments at Eli.

Eli shrugged widely. "Long as Richards doesn't mind—and Teddy, of course."

The boy with dark hair laughed, though in the empty air that Kate now realized seemed to come mostly from a pile of blankets and a half-finished carving of an ant, the laugh sounded hollow. "Teddy loves people; you know that."

Eli turned to Kate. She could feel the stickiness of the loss, of the distrust in the air, and she was just waiting for him to turn her back out into the night.

But he surprised her. "Okay," he said at last, sticking out his hand. "One month. That's all you're getting."


	4. Serpent Squad

**First off, apologies for the lack of update yesterday. It was ANZAC day (for those that don't know, a quick Google search of the Gallipoli Campaign will explain) and I was up 3 hours before the sun for a dawn service/parade and fell asleep as soon as I got back home. Didn't have time to edit this, sorry about that.**

**Secondly, our thoughts and prayers are with those affected by the earthquake that struck Nepal yesterday, as well as the families affected by the avalanche that occurred on Mt Everest. **

**Sin's one-shots are all relevant to each other, so this is technically part 2. Hope you enjoy this amazing one-shot by Silz, writer of Sinthea!**

* * *

**The Serpent Squad**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701**

* * *

_"Boys are idiots. Girls are idiots, too, of course, but boys are a special kind of idiot. They can't wrap their feeble minds around the idea that this girl might have anything in common with them. It's like they can't recognize girls as human beings."_

_– _Josh Lieb

* * *

District Six, like any District, had areas of poverty and areas of wealth. The Sentinels of District Six were rather relaxed, and they didn't really care what happened in the poorer areas of the district. As long as any crime committed didn't have a blatantly obvious perpetrator, the Sentinels would let anything go- even the occasional murder. It was just the way things worked in District Six. Terrigen abuse, murder, theft, bullying, it all didn't matter as long as the victim was poor. And that only bred trouble.

Sinthea stood behind a tree, peeking out at a group of boys. She stood in a small park in District Six's main poor housing area, staring into a dark alley across the way. It was near an old, abandoned factory that was inhabited by all types of vermin, both human and animal.

There were three boys older than Sinthea, maybe sixteen to her eleven. Then there were three young boys that were either Sin's age or slightly older. Everyone knew these boys.

_They_ were the most ruthless gang in District Six.

_They_ were the Serpent Squad.

There was Rattler, Gustav Krueger. He was fifteen. Then there was Quincy McIver, the Bushmaster, who at sixteen was one of the more brutal members of the Serpent Squad. Rounding out the older members was their leader, a seventeen year old by the name of Roland Burroughs, called Death Adder. He was unique in that he had been born mute, and could not speak. But his face said it all, and it was all the more intimidating when your killer or attacker just stared, saying nothing.

The younger boys were Davis Lawfers, called Copperhead, and Gregory Bryan, Sidewinder, both twelve years old. Then there was Klaus Voorhees, an eleven year old called Cobra. All three had been initiated into the Squad about a month ago, committing petty thefts as their initiation crime. But Sin was scared.

After all, no girls had made the cut in the past few years. Sin couldn't remember a time without the Serpent Squad terrorizing the poor sections of District Six's main town, but the great female members were from well before her time. After all, there had been Diamondback and Black Mamba, just to name a pair. But they were married and had kids already, and had very little to do with the current incarnation of the Serpent Squad.

Sin finally got up the courage to step forward into the light. The gang noticed her instantly and got curious. They stared at her as she walked forward towards them.

"What d'you want, girl?" Quincy McIver demanded, sharpening his knife in an obvious attempt at intimidation.

Sin would have none of it. She and Crossbones trained each other each day after school and worked in the factory, so she knew how to defend herself. And she had her own knife with her, too. She wasn't stupid enough to come to the Serpent Squad unarmed.

"I want in."

The boys stared at her serious face and then burst out laughing. Who did this girl think she was?

"Who the hell are you?" McIver asked her, coming forward to stand in front of Sinthea.

"Sinthea Schmidt."

Sin was short, around four foot ten, but she was fast. McIver was tall, almost six foot. It was funny to watch the little redhead standing up to the large, brown haired teenager.

"What can you show us?" McIver asked her after a minute.

Sin considered this. "I'm good with a knife, and hand-to-hand. I can steal, and I'm not afraid of violence."

"I think she's worthless," McIver laughed turning to face the other boys.

"Let's see her fight," Gustav Krueger suggested.

It was agreed and Sin was told to fight with Davis Lawfers. The two kids lined up across from each other. Davis Lawfers was about five foot six and at only twelve years old, he was a force to be reckoned with. He was all muscle, having worked in a local factory for about two years now. Sinthea sized him up; no doubt she couldn't sustain many solid hits from this kid, but she was sure she was faster. If she just-

"GO!"

Sinthea leapt aside as Lawfers lunged at her, going for her head. She ducked away from him, but not before she landed a punch on his stomach. Lawfers growled and stepped up his game. Sinthea managed, barely, to block a hit to her head. He got out of the way as she tried to land her own hit on his hip and he punched her across the shoulder.

Sinthea shook herself as she landed on the ground, and noted with fear that Lawfers was going in for the kill. He reached down to grab her by the throat but she would have none of that. She kicked his face with her feet and he yelled in pain. She used the time to roll out of the way and pick herself up.

Davis Lawfers faced her in anger and drew his knife. Sinthea did the same.

But Roland Burroughs held up his hand to silence them, stepping forward and towering over Sinthea. He stared down at her, gauging her courage. He smirked, turned to McIver, and handed him a note he'd just written.

It said, "Let her try it."

The boys were stunned silent. Let her try it. They all knew what Burroughs meant. Let her try the job that none of them had yet been able to do, or had yet been willing to try. Steal from Mr. Grossman. Steal his new shipment of Terrigen.

"Alright, girl, here's what you have to do."

McIver explained to her all about Mr. Wong. He was an old man, maybe in his seventies, who lived down on Speed Street. He had an old house all to himself, and he lived a quiet life. Every month, he would get in a new shipment of Terrigen from a local manufacturer. It was in high demand, and Mr. Wong only got the best of the best. Everyone wanted a piece of his stuff. Should've been easy pickings.

Problem was, he had a giant guard dog. No one went near Fang, as he was called, because he'd rip your head clean off if he got the chance. None of the Serpent Squad were willing to try the assignment.

"I'll do it," Sin agreed, "And if I come out of it with the Terrigen, I get a place in the Squad?"

Burroughs nodded silently.

* * *

That night, Sinthea lay awake in bed while her Grandmother fell asleep. Once she was sure Grandma Scarbo was sound asleep, she tiptoed out of her room, already in her full outfit of black jeans, a black shirt, and her black hat to cover much of her bright ginger hair. She wore worn out grey palm gloves so that her fingers were still visible. In her right hand was her trusty knife.

Speed Street wasn't that far from Wheel Street, where she lived. It only took about five minutes of sneaking through the dark to get to 101 Speed Street, the address of the house in question.

The yard out front had Fang inside, and Sin peeked through the gate keyhole at the large dog. He was asleep, for now, but Sinthea knew of a way into the house that most of the large guys wouldn't be able to utilize.

A large oak tree grew outside the fence and one of its biggest branches reached up against the window of the house. None of these houses had windows that locked, as the Capitol insisted, so that was her way in.

She didn't know which room of the house the window let into, but she guessed that it was the attic. From there she would tiptoe down to the basement, grab the shipment of Terrigen, and get out. How exactly she planned on getting out, she wasn't sure, but as a safety she decided to try her lock picking skills to unlock the front gate in case she needed a quick getaway.

Slowly and carefully, Sinthea took out her pick and began playing with the tumblers. One clicked into place, and then a second. She took a moment to glance at the dog inside the yard and saw he was still asleep. She went back to playing with the lock. Another two tumblers unlocked. There was only one left, when her pick broke. The snap caused the dog to roll over in his sleep, and Sinthea held her breath hoping Fang wouldn't wake up. As she took out her second lock pick, she inserted it into the lock and finally finished picking it.

Now she could focus on the Terrigen shipment. Heading around back to the tree, she began climbing it, first one hand then the other. It was a relatively easy tree to climb, and the branch over to the house was thick enough to support her. When she got to it, she slowly and quietly lifted up the window so that there was a clear opening for her to climb through. Peering into the dark house, she let her eyes adjust. Sinthea counted her blessings that it wasn't the bedroom.

Sin climbed inside, careful to put her foot where she guessed the crossbeams were so she didn't make any noise. Hunching down, she continued to navigate the large, full attic until she came to the stairs down. She put as little weight as possible on each step, relying on her small size to keep her undetected. In large part, it worked.

She got into the basement with ease, and located the box marked by the manufacturing company Wong bought from. Sin swiped the small box and managed to get onto the ground floor before anything went wrong. But when one thing went wrong, it all went downhill.

No one knew about Grossman's other dog, Wolf. He lived inside the house. He was just as big as Fang outside, only he was grey where the other was brown. Sinthea stared right into Wolf's eyes in horror as the dog began to growl when she reached the sitting room.

"Damn."

Sin took off running towards the front door with Wolf hot on her heels. She swung open the door and tore across the large yard, Wolf and now Fang right behind her. She had to keep from screaming as she tripped on a tree root, but managed to get herself back up and out of reach of the two dogs.

Sinthea reached the gate, but not before Fang had grabbed her left arm in his mouth. He bit down hard. Sin bit her own lip to keep from yelling in pain. Her right arm was holding the Terrigen, which she didn't dare drop, so she used her knee to smack the dog in the nose. He let go, allowing Sinthea to get behind the gate on the other side.

Her arm was bleeding, but she decided to first go to the Serpent Citadel, as the Squad called the old factory, to deliver the Terrigen. After all, if she brought it home, her grandmother might use it all up, she thought ruefully.

She delivered the Terrigen to the only two members of the Squad who were there, McIver and Burroughs. McIver took the package from her and nodded his approval.

"Good job, kid," he nodded, "You're in."

Burroughs narrowed his eyes.

"What's her new name, sir?" McIver asked Burroughs, handing him a piece of paper and a pencil.

He wrote it down.

It read, "She doesn't get one."

Sinthea narrowed her eyes, but didn't dare protest. She walked out of the old warehouse factory, grabbing at her bleeding arm. She knew then that she would never be looked upon as their equal. After all, she was a girl. But she had to do something about her arm.

So she went to Crossbones's house. Sin knocked on his window, conveniently on the ground floor. He came to it after a moment and stared at her arm in surprise and worry.

"What'd you do?" he hissed, crawling out his window after grabbing a can of water, bandages, and ointment.

"I joined the Serpent Squad," she told him excitedly as the two sat under a tree and Crossbones mended her arm.

"You _what_?"

"I joined the Serpent Squad," she explained, "They had me go steal Mr. Wong's Terrigen shipment."

"Did Fang get you?" Crossbones asked her.

Sin shrugged. "It was either Fang or the other dog."

"Other dog?"

"Yeah, I saw his collar. It said 'Wolf'."

Sinthea gritted her teeth as Brock applied the ointment to her arm and wrapped it in bandages after washing it clean. He looked at her in concern. But he reminded himself that she could handle herself.

"So, what's your new name?" he asked her.

Sin narrowed her eyes. "They didn't give me one."

"They're never going to treat you as an equal - you know that right?" Brock sighed as he closed up the ointment container.

"I'll make them," was all she said.


	5. Uncle Ben

**Hey guys, sorry for no update last week. Hopefully back on track with this lovely little one-shot about the day Uncle Ben was taken, written by the fabulous abrokencastiel! Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

**Uncle Ben**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_"Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back." _

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

* * *

The tablet's light blinked on and Peter punched the air in success as he took a victory lap around the room. Weeks of experimenting with different connections to the old battery were finally paying off.

"Peter, you up there? Dinner is almost ready," Uncle Ben called from downstairs.

Peter bit his lip against responding. He couldn't stop now. He was so close to seeing what was on that tablet. On his parents' tablet. Just a few more minutes.

A loud knock sounded on the door downstairs.

* * *

"You expecting anyone, May?" Ben called to his wife from where he stood at the base of the stairs.

"No, I don't believe so," she responded. "Maybe it's one of Peter's friends."

Ben opened the door and was confronted by a trio of Sentinels. He blinked in surprise. "Hello, what can I do for you fine men today?"

"Sir, we are here to search the premises. We have reason to believe there might be objects of interest to the Capitol," the front one said.

Ben hesitated a moment, but stepped aside. There was no stopping them, anyway. "Certainly. We have nothing to hide."

"Ben, dear, who is it?" May peeked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face paled instantly when she saw the purple and blue clad men in the foyer.

"May, these fine gentlemen just need to check a few things in the house." He went behind her and placed his hands comfortingly on her shoulders.

"Oh, of course. Welcome." She forced a smile and turned to the stairs. "Peter, honey, we have visitors."

* * *

Upstairs, Peter was frozen next to the door where he had been listening. They were going to search the house. He looked down at the gadgets and papers covering the nearby desk and the tablet that was still charging. Quickly, he ran over and started shoving everything back into the box as quietly as he could. He should have known better than to work during daylight hours. He'd gotten lax in his careful routine of only working at night.

"Peter?" Aunt May called again from downstairs.

Peter stayed quiet. His hands shook as the last paper was finally crumpled into the box. He left the tablet out as he shoved the box into the storage closet at the back of the small study, throwing a few old clothes on top for good measure. He didn't have enough time to hide it under the floorboards in its usual spot.

"I could have sworn he was here," Aunt May was saying. "But it was probably my mistake. He must be out with his friends."

"Yes, I thought I heard him say something about meeting with a girl from school," Uncle Ben supplied.

"If it's all the same to you, we would like to check the upstairs," a Sentinel said. Footsteps started up the stairs.

He grabbed the tablet and charger, shoving them into a satchel that he swung across his chest. He couldn't stay, not now that this aunt and uncle has said he was gone. Peter turned to the window and slid it open. The drop was long, but he didn't hesitate before crawling onto the small ledge. He stood carefully and reached up to grab the edge of the roof, hoisting himself up with ease. It was windy, but Peter had no trouble keeping his balance on the shingles as he jumped from his roof to his neighbours'. The small houses were tall instead of wide and positioned close together throughout the district. "Thank you, Flash, for all the years of chasing me up buildings," he mumbled as he jumped the next gap.

Peter scaled down the drain pipe of the next house and nonchalantly walked down the street, the satchel held in front of him by one hand.

* * *

"Silly boy's always leaving without telling us," Ben said when Peter wasn't to be found. "Can barely keep track of him."

"Maybe you should," one of the Sentinels said shortly.

"We are here to do a thorough search, not hunt down a kid," the lead Sentinel said. "If you would, please leave us to our work. You and the missus can wait in the kitchen." He pointedly turned away.

Ben rejoined May downstairs. His wife was twisting the towel in her hands while she paced the kitchen.

"What are they doing here?" she whispered, her blue eyes glancing upward.

Ben took her hands in his, unwinding the towel and moving her to sit. "Calm down, dear. Everything is going to be fine. It's just a check."

"I thought that we were past this. I thought that after all these years they would leave us alone." May put her head in her hands.

"They won't find anything, May." He ran hand over her white hair and under her chin, tilting her face upward. He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "Nothing is going to happen to us. To any of us."

* * *

The old factory was closed when Peter arrived. The sun was almost completely set after the winding path he'd taken to get there. After a quick glance to make sure no one else was around, Peter began scaling the brick wall. The factory was the oldest in the district and even thought the inside had been renovated, the outside was still rundown. His fingers found the cracks and crevices as he climbed until he reached the ledge of a window. He wiggled the frame until the old latch unlocked.

"And people say breaking and entering is hard," Peter said to himself as he slipped inside. The shadows of the machines haunted the darkness. His light steps sounded too loud in the complete silence. He arrived at his destination: the tallest machine of the factory. In the shadows, he pulled out the tablet. He held his breath as he flicked it on, hoping it had charged enough to do at least that. The power light blinked on and Peter's heart race. A red symbol of a skull over six tentacles filled the screen before fading to a lock screen. Peter's shoulders sagged. There was a password. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to remember if there had been anything in the papers that would clue him into what it could be, but he had nothing. With a sigh he turned the tablet off and slid it back into the bag. The secrets would have to wait.

Even in the dark, Peter had no trouble climbing the machine. He did it so often during the work day that his hands knew where to reach, his feet where to be placed. Within seconds, he had reached the ceiling. He tested a few spots until a panel moved enough for him to push it aside. Peter slipped the satchel off and into the opening. The panel back in place, he let himself go through a controlled fall to the floor where he landed lightly on the balls of his feet.

A sigh of relief escaped him and a smile crossed his lips. It was safe now. Everything was okay. He left the way he came, closing the window and jogging away with his head down. He took a different path home, winding through side-streets and taking detours. Eventually he ended up back at his door. The sun had been set for a good hour and curfew was dangerously close to being implemented.

"I'm back," Peter called out as he opened the door. "Uncle Ben? Aunt May?" Nothing. Peter frowned and moved to the kitchen where Aunt May was bent over the counter. "Not a hello for your favorite nephew? I mean, I know I'm your only nephew." No response. "Aunt May? What's wrong?" A sinking feeling pervaded his stomach. "Where's Uncle Ben?"

The burned remains of dinner were in the sink. Aunt May started to say something, but only a sob came out and she put her head in her hands.

"Where is he, Aunt May? Where's Uncle Ben?" Peter strode over and put his hands on his aunt's shoulders, making her face him. "What happened?"

"Sentinels came. They were searching for things. Things like what your parents were involved in. Things against the Capitol." It was the first anyone had openly told Peter that his parents had been involved in rebelling. It was something he had long suspected, but now Aunt May had confirmed it. "They searched everywhere. Our room, your room, everywhere. That storage closet in the study. There was a box of things and papers. They said the papers were about rebellion. Ben said the box was his and that we had nothing to do with it."

Peter's mouth went dry. "Aunt May." His voice cracked. "What did they do to him?"

She met his eyes with tears in her own. "They took him, Pete. They took him away." She broke down and sobbed, her face buried in her hands.

It felt like he had taken a punch to the gut. There was no way they had taken his uncle. Not his uncle who sat with him during those long nights when he cried because his parents hadn't come back. Not his uncle who saved all year to surprise Peter with french toast every birthday. Not his uncle who taught him that violence wasn't the only way to solve a problem. The Sentinels couldn't have taken him away. It just wasn't possible.

But they had.

As Peter wrapped his arms around his distraught aunt, he tried to accept this like he'd accepted his parents' demise. There was nothing he could do. He'd already done enough. He'd dug too deep and all he had to show for it was a tablet he would never be able to unlock. The Capitol had taken his parents. Now his uncle was gone because of Peter's actions and he had a feeling they weren't going to stop there. For Aunt May's sake, he hoped he was wrong.


	6. The Realm of the Bittersweet

**Apologies for the lack of update, real life got in the way. However, here's a new one-shot from the lovely Taila-Tai, writing Loki!**

* * *

**The Realm of the Bittersweet**

**Loki Odinson of District 12**

**Written by Taila-Tai**

* * *

_"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard"_

\- Winnie the Pooh

* * *

_Black cursive writing decorated the milky parchment, the ink barely having time to dry before the paper was thrown to the side in favour of a clear piece. A black deeper than the ink was drawn over vividly bright green eyes, furrowed in concentration and thought._

_Slim fingers moved quickly, the elegant script echoing the muttered words leaving thin lips. "In science, a hypothesis is an idea or an explanation that you then test through study or experimentation. Outside of science, a theory or guess – "_

"_Are you still working, son?"_

_Loki looked up in shock, green eyes snapping back to reality. "Mother?" He smiled softly, placing the ink pen down and moving back from the desk. "When have you known me to do much else?"_

_Frigga chuckled warmly, moving closer and petting raven coloured hair. "When your brother is home," she quipped, tugging on the dark strands. "But, as Thor finds himself at the training arena more often than not, you have all but disappeared."_

_Sighing, Loki moved back to the table, pushing his lengthening hair behind his ears as he walked. As much as he hated to admit it, his mother was right once again. If Thor was home, Loki was never too far from the teenager's side – either simply talking or playing with him or perhaps helping him with his studies. But when Thor wasn't home, Loki found himself lost in his own studies and books, digging himself deeper into the realm of isolation._

_The realm that took him far from his family and far from reality._

"_I am studying, mother," Loki spoke, attempting a smile. "I am hoping to finish my tutoring before my time."_

_Frigga studied the boy. "Why? Son, you have been in this world for nine years, yet you act as though you are centuries older than myself," she returned his smile. "You should be enjoying your youth."_

"_By training with blunt weapons and sweating like a pig?" Loki cocked a brow, his features twisting into a playful smirk. "Hmm, my youth is better spent in the company of books."_

_Laughing lightly, Frigga moved to embrace the child, resting her chin on his head. "Your books cannot answer you or provide you with love and attention," she reminded him, pulling back and smoothing down his bangs. "I can though; perhaps you and I shall read together?"_

_Loki rolled his eyes, but allowed his mother to continue her ministrations. "Reading together will give me no more social interaction than reading alone," he muttered, pouting slightly. "I do not know why you insist."_

"_Because you are my son," Frigga offered. "I can remember you learning to walk like it was yesterday. I remember the day when you spoke your first word, if only so you could correct your brother," her smile turned wistful. "But today, I look at you and I can no longer find that child I used to coddle. No, now I see a child becoming a man."_

"_I'm nine. It will be many years before I even start to become a man," Loki pointed out. "You cannot use that line on me."_

_Frigga cocked a brow, running a palm down pale cheeks. _

_"Maybe I cannot, but I shall anyway," she decided. "You are my son, and I feel as though you are slipping away. Growing up without me, which I do not remember giving you permission to do."_

"_Hmm," Loki moved away, brushing away her hands and sitting down once again. "Since when have you known me to ask for permission?" he questioned, trailing off as he began reading once again._

_The older woman opened her mouth to answer, but the words died in her throat as she watched green eyes glaze over. Loki was lost once again. She sighed, moving to stand behind him and read over his shoulder with a slight frown. The words and theories on the paper were advanced, highly so for someone of his age but all she did was nod and accept it._

_Her sons were constantly shocking her, first with a sword and now with a book._

_Her eyes landed on an equation she didn't understand. "Loki, son, what is that?" she inquired, a painted nail landing on the complicated question._

_Green eyes shot to where she pointed, narrowing in thought. His lips moved soundlessly before he smiled, leaning back and beaming up at her. "Three, point, zero to the power of six."_

_Her eyebrows lifted. "Well done, my son," she breathed, going over it herself and attempting to come to the same conclusion. "How can you understand that?"_

_Loki shrugged, biting his lower lip. "I just do?" he offered._

"_A natural gift," Frigga realised before tugging on the younger boy's green tunic. "Now come, I demand to spend some quality time with my son." _

"_Mother, my studies – "_

"_No. No studies, no books," she decided. "Just mother and son, do you think you could live with that?"_

_She tugged him up, pulling him along by his shoulder as she moved out of the room and down the stairs. The boy trailed behind her, footsteps slightly clumsy from shock at the strength the woman possessed before he gained back the natural grace._

"_I suppose I do not have a choice," he sighed, walking quicker to catch up and stand at her side. "Why do you insist on this?"_

"_You're nine," Frigga admonished._

_Loki furrowed his brow. "I am aware."_

"_So stop talking like my mother used to and _listen_. Why can't you stumble over words or perhaps use the wrong ones for a change?" she exclaimed, continuing to pull the boy behind her, muscles not even straining at tugging the lean and tall body._

_"The other children your age can barely pronounce half the words you use on a daily basis."_

_Loki felt their stride slow and leant against his mother, head resting on her shoulder. "If our previous conversation did not explain this clear enough for you, mother dearest; I am not like other children."_

_With a small, well – hidden smile, Loki realised where his mother had led them both. Her gentle pace took them through the gardens; the plants that were flourishing under his mother's thumb surrounding them with colours and smells as they continued their banter._

"_None of my children fit the mould society has made," Frigga noted aloud, linking her arm with her son's. "Now, what does that say about me?"_

_Loki frowned, tightening his hold on her. "That you're a good mother?"_

_Frigga chuckled. "That is something you might glean from it, I suppose," she allowed. "Now, why are you hiding from me? If I am as good a mother as you claim, would you not love being in my company?"_

"_I do not dislike your company," Loki growled quietly._

"_One day I might not be here, my dear son..."_

"_Do not speak like that," Loki snarled, blinking at his own outburst. "I-I apologize for my behaviour; I did not mean to raise my voice."_

_Frigga smiled and touched the boy's brow. "You're scared to lose me? I'm touched."_

_Loki smiled, closing his eyes. "You're my mother, whether you are happy to be or not. I will mourn for the rest of my days should I lose you," he admitted, breathing calmly. "But, we're in luck it would seem. The stubborn ones live the longest as they say."_

"I_ am the stubborn one?" Frigga exclaimed._

"_Oh yes, yes you are."_

* * *

Loki blinked, bringing himself out of his daze when silence fell over the small crowd. The man ahead had finished his spiel, it would seem, his hands closing the leather bound book he cradled.

"And now, we give the energy this soul harbours back to the world," the grey haired man nodded once, closing his eyes as he finished the blessing. "Frigga will be forever in our hearts and in the souls of her two children."

Loki's lower lip trembled as he watched the body being lowered, his mother dressed in her best drapes. He had seen her in the pale dress so many times, but this time was different. This time the dress outshone her. Usually she wore a grin so bright it seemed to reflect the sun, lighting up her warm eyes and aging skin. She would have a glow about her that could never be outdone by the rich material.

But now, the pale gold seemed brighter than she ever was.

"Loki, brother, come on."

Thor was like her, he supposed, with bright eyes that were frightening similar to hers and a smile that was bright enough to blind him most days. Loki felt more tugging on his arm and turned to look at the forlorn expression on his features.

It hurt to see that expression on his face. Like his mother, Thor was meant to be happy; seeing the sadness on his features was similar to seeing the smile missing from her lips.

"I am coming, Thor," he allowed, moving behind him, almost tucked into his arm. "I did not mean to become lost in my mind."

Thor smiled, albeit weakly. "I understand, brother," he nodded, clutching onto the boy like a lifeline. "You are like mother in that aspect."

"And you are like mother in every other way," Loki smiled back, but the action hurt.

The rest of the day passed in a blur but from then on out, things changed. Loki could no longer look at his brother without seeing his mother's smile and the warm eyes that used to gaze at him fondly. So he did not look upon him as often, refusing offers of company and instead becoming close friends with his own mind.

On the day he found out about his true birthright, the pain of loss only doubled in size, and for the first time since the day he lost his mother; he cried and screamed. Odin hated him and every time the man showed it, Loki would remember his mother's smile and the way she would pet his hair as she spoke to him.

He would remember the way she called him intelligent and expressive, gushing over his large eyes that showed every little emotion he felt. And soon after those memories became his lullaby, the large eyes closed off, revealing nothing more than a stone wall.

If Frigga saw her youngest son today, she wouldn't recognize the bitter child that stood before her.

And as much as it hurt Loki to think that, he continued building the walls.


	7. Sowing the Black

**(A/N) - Warg here! Because we're just heartless enough to leave ITEYAK on a cliffhanger but not quite heartless enough to leave you all hanging completely until Nick returns from vacation, here's a quick one-shot from Natasha's past. Thank you to GeekyComicBookGuy for all the reviews! **

* * *

**Sowing the Black**

**Natasha Romanoff of District Two**

**Written by GeekyChic123**

* * *

_Let no one underestimate the need of pity. We live in a stony universe whose hard, brilliant forces rage fiercely_.

-Theodore Dreiser

* * *

Natasha stood in the pen holding the eligible children for this year's Reaping. The crowd was pressing in on her, and it was almost starting to become difficult to draw a breath. The day was boiling hot, and what with the slight nerves she was feeling, the smell of the thousand or so overheated people surrounding her, and the constant noise driving into her skull, Natasha was almost starting to feel sick.

Someone nudged her back, and Natasha jolted away from the human contact, tensing, always ready for a fight. "Hey, it's fine." A voice murmured into her ear, "You're fine." Nat recognized that voice; it belonged to her mentor from The Room, sixteen-year-old Dotty. The girl was tall, beautiful, and always had a steel glint in her eyes that said she was ready to do anything if it would lead to her survival. Dotty was going to volunteer for the games next year, and Nat was sure she was going to be the first victor The Room would ever have.

Natasha was happy for her mentor, really, but sometimes she could't help but feel a sting of jealousy. When she thought about the honor Dotty would earn from The Room for being their first winner. The stories that would be told to every new recruit. The fame she would gain throughout the entire country.

But then she would push those thoughts aside, and just be grateful that she had been assigned the most skilled mentor that The Red Room had to offer. Now Dotty pressed a reassuring hand into Natasha's back, and though she was not used to the physical contact, Tasha appreciated it.

The older girl spoke softly into her ear. "You have nothing to be nervous about; your name's only in there one time. If you were lucky enough to be Reaped with one name, on your first time, you'd probably be lucky enough to win the entire games." Natasha couldn't help but smile at this, slightly reassured. Dotty continued talking. "Want to know a secret? I wish I had my name in there a few more times. More of a chance I'd be called this year. I mean, I know I'm supposed to wait until next year, but what more can the room teach me? I'm ready to fight now."

Natasha turned slightly now, so she could look at Dotty. The girl was gazing longingly at the stage, where Jarvis was going to be coming out soon, to pull the names and change two lives forever. And probably to end them. "You're not going to volunteer, are you?" Natasha asked softly, a nervous tremor of fear flickering through her before she pushed it away. Deflect it, don't feel the bad things. Just ignore them, and move on. She ignored the fear, but couldn't shake her nerves. What would she do if she got Reaped? She wasn't ready to fight. And what if Dotty was Reaped? Tasha definitely wasn't ready to train on her own…

Now Natasha's mentor sighed. "No, I'm not going to do that. The Room would be furious if I volunteered without their permission; they wouldn't support me in the Games. I wouldn't have any definite sponsors, and unless I was extremely lucky I wouldn't make it without them. I'm not dumb enough to think otherwise. I'll just wait until next year, even though I'm already trained."

Natasha smirked up at her mentor, and almost laughed. "Already trained? Didn't I beat you in hand to hand combat last night? What if there was another twelve-year-old like me in the games this year? You'd be so dead."

Dotty smiled down at her. "Okay, first of all, there are no twelve-year-olds like you. You're unique, Nat. Second of all, for the last time, I let you win. And if you tell anyone otherwise I'm not going to recommend you be next in line for the Reaping next time a slot opens."

Natasha was on the edge of laughing now, feeling lucky that she was going to get her mentor for another year; most of the younger kids in The Room didn't even have one. Not all of the older recruits were exactly well suited for mentoring…. Natasha had already been evaluated, and marked as not likely to participate in the opposite end of the Room's mentorship program in the future. They thought she wasn't quite caring enough to deal with the youngest recruits, and was too competitive to fully want to help the ones closer to her in age. Well, she couldn't argue with them about the second part.

Suddenly Jarvis came on stage, and Dotty sighed again, looking depressed. Natasha squeezed her hand and spoke just loud enough that her mentor could hear- "You're going to be up there next year, and then The Room is going to be so proud of you. It will be amazing." Dotty smiled briefly, pride flashing in her eyes, aware of how confident The Room was that she was going to win, and Natasha felt that flash of jealousy again. Just push it aside, ignore it so it would go away.

Make room for the nerves that came flooding back, as the twelve-year-old wondered if maybe there was still a chance she could get reaped before she was ready. She wanted this desperately, had even once hoped that she would be the first twelve-year-old that The Room would put forward to volunteer. But now she knew she wasn't ready, she needed more time to prepare. As Jarvis reached his hand in to pull out the name of a District 2 girl, Natasha Romanoff was scared.

But she didn't have to be, because the name that was called was Kate Neville. Natasha could feel the group immediately around her relax, tension was lifted off most everyone in the crowd. Except for one girl who looked like she had just been handed a death sentence. She walked timidly forward, pushing loose hair out of her face, eyes darting wildly as if she was trapped and looking for an escape route that wasn't there.

Dotty was whispering in Natasha's ear. "This is so not fair, look at her she doesn't even want to be here. Someone who actually wants this had better volunteer, or else it's going to be even harder for me not to." Natasha reached out and grabbed her mentor's hand, and Dotty actually held onto it for a minute, reassuring Nat she wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.

The girl, Kate, stood there on the stage and Natasha was struck by how pathetic she looked. She wasn't crying, but her eyes looked teary and she was gazing out at the crowd as if begging for someone to volunteer. District 2 did have volunteers more often than the other Districts, but it wasn't as if they had volunteers every year….. And it looked like this was going to be one of the years where at least the female tribute came from the Reaping rather than from volunteers.

Dotty spoke in her ear again. "That one isn't going to last more than an hour in the arena; she'll be pathetic to watch." And for a minute Natasha felt true sadness for this girl who was going to be dead within the next couple weeks. But she pushed those feelings away too, she shouldn't feel sympathy for some girl who would have no impact on her life. She wasn't important. She was going to die, and that was too bad, but it was none of Nat's concern. So instead of pitying the girl on the stage, Natasha and Dotty stood in the crowd and made snarky comments about how quickly she was going to die.

A boy was Reaped, and another volunteered. He was a large brute, who looked like he might at least have a chance to fight in the games. Dotty was talking about him now, but Natasha's attention kept being drawn back to that girl, wondering how quickly she was going to die in the Games. How it would happen. Who or what was going to kill her.

Natasha had tried to box up her emotions since joining The Room. Tried to become truly calculating, and utterly removed from pain and pity and fear. She thought she had learned to not care about anyone she didn't need to care about in that moment, or who would not be an asset to her in the future. But now as Natasha stared at Kate Neville, and felt overwhelmed by sorrow and pity for her, she understood just how much she was not ready for the games yet. she knew that she still cared too much. She needed to stop being Natasha Romanoff, twelve-year-old girl, and become The Black Widow. A Hunger Games tribute, who was prepared to win at any cost.


	8. Young and Impressionable

**(A/N) - Lest you think we've abandoned our little heroes over at ITEYAK, here's another update on our kiddies before they were thrust into the insanity of the Games. This one's by the lovely Ophelia Lokisdottir and features an adorable tiny Kurt! :)**

* * *

**Young and Impressionable**

**Kurt Wagner of District Nine**

**Written by Ophelia Lokisdottir**

* * *

_Through the eyes of a child you will see the world just as it ought to be._

_-_Author Unknown

* * *

There was a lot of commotion in town that day. Kurt and Kitty were smack-dab in the centre of the town square, near the Justice Building and the train station, when floods of people began pouring into the square.

Kitty grabbed his hand and towed him towards a tall tree that stood over the post office, finding gaps between people that Kurt hadn't even seen and slipping swiftly through. When they reached the base of the tree, Kurt, already wiry and strong at five years old, laced his fingers together, creating a step for Kitty. He boosted her to the lowest branch, and she swung up, then helped him up. The youths scaled the tree, nimble as monkeys, until they were above the crush of people and could see the entire square.

"It's like when they pick for the 'Venger Games," said Kitty. She was right, but the mood was a far cry from the solemn, sombre air that hung over the town on the day of the Reaping. The atmosphere today was celebratory and joyous.

Kurt didn't really understand why everyone was so sad that day. It was fun to see the pretty colours of the fancy people, and two kids got to go on a trip. Kurt's mom didn't like him watching the Games, but what he had seen looked like an adventure! People were running in the woods, and playing in the water, and they got to use such cool toys! Kurt's favourite was all the pretty swords, like his mom read about in his favourite book.

* * *

_"What shall we read tonight, my darling?"_

_"Can we read about the three 'sketeers again, mama?" His mother would laugh._

"Musketeers, _dear," she would correct as she pulled the ancient book from the shelf._

* * *

The crowd pressed forward toward the train platform, crowding together as more and more people entered the square. The crowd gradually hushed, and everyone was staring towards the platform.

"What are they waitin' for?" Kurt said. Kitty pushed his shoulder gently.

"Shhh! I dunno. Maybe there's gonna be a show."

They both quieted as the low thrum of a train engine became louder and louder and craned their necks to see the approaching Capitol train.

"It's so fast and shiny! Wouldn't it be cool to ride in one?" Kurt asked.

The train slowed as it pulled into the station. There was tension, like the crowd was holding its breath. The train stopped, and a door hissed open.

The crowd let out a roar as a muscled young man stepped through the door. He raised his arms and grinned, waving to the Nine citizens.

"Drax! Drax! Drax!" the crowd chanted.

"Wasn't he in the 'Venger Games?" Kurt asked.

Kitty shrugged. "We could ask him."

A young woman wove through the crowd, racing up the steps and falling into Drax's arms. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, pulling her close to his body.

"Ew!" Kitty shrieked. "That's so gross!"

Kurt nodded vigorously in agreement. "Yeah. That's how babies are made."

Kitty's eyes widened. "For real?"

"I think so," Kurt replied. "Someone at school told me."

As the cheers and clapping died down, the crowd began to disperse, wandering out of the square or over to talk to other people. Kurt and Kitty scrambled down through the branches and wove across the square at top speed, their small boots tapping out quick beats on the cement slabs that covered the ground in the square. They skidded to a halt at the front of the square. The man and woman were still on the platform, talking quietly. The man's hand rested on the woman's belly, and he was smiling.

Up close, the children were in awe. The man's skin was smoky grey and covered with thin, red tattoos. Kurt and Kitty's eyes were the size of golf balls as they traced the mesmerizing designs. The woman glanced down at them and smiled.

"Arthur, I think you have a couple little fans," she said. The man glanced at them, smiling as well.

"Hi there, kiddos. What's up?"

"Did your mommy let you draw on your skin? It's so pretty!" Kitty blurted out.

Arthur laughed. "No, I asked the nice people in the Capitol to do this after I won the Avenger Games. I think's it's pretty too."

"Is she your girlfriend?" Kurt asked, pointing at the woman.

"This is Yvette. She's my fiancée," Drax said. The children gave him blank looks.

"What's a fina ...a fia … what you said?" Kitty asked.

"It means we're getting married soon," Drax said. "And she's just told me that we're going to have a baby as well."

"I TOLD you," Kurt whispered to Kitty. "How did you win the Avenger Games?" he asked Arthur. "Did you get a cool toy to use?"

Arthur glanced at Yvette, his smile dimming slightly. "I just ... I tried really hard, and I beat the other players," he said finally.

Kurt was happy with the explanation. The children thanked Arthur and hurried out of the square.

"I'm never kissing ANYONE EVER," Kitty said as they raced down the street.


	9. Jarella Of Kai

**(A/N) - Here we are again with another one-shot! This time, it's Bruce Banner, so we can get more of that amazing Jarella stylist love!**

**Thanks to sailorraven34 and WhoPotterAvenge-X Kane for the reviews! And don't worry; as soon as we can, we'll scratch that ITEYAK itch ;)**

* * *

**Jarella Of Kai**

**Bruce Banner**

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"I'll be at charges for a looking-glass_

_and entertain a score or two of tailors to study fashions to adorn my body:_

_Since I am crept in favor with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost."_

\- Shakespeare

* * *

Bruce stood at the window with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, staring down at the bustling hive that was the Capitol. He'd never seen so many people, and it had an unreal quality. As if the window were just another video screen, giving a version of reality – but not reality itself. He shrugged a little shiver when he heard the door open, but kept staring at the view. Darcy Lewis gave him a practiced smile.

"Bruce Banner, this is Jarella Kai. You're terribly lucky that she's your stylist."

He remained where he stood. "Am I."

Darcy refrained from sighing. "Yes, you certainly are. Jarella is the daughter of Jaras Kai." She waited for a response that didn't come. "Jaras Kai? The designer? Come on, I know Six is a little backward, but surely you've heard of the House of Kai fashions! Her father dresses the most affluent citizens of Marvel!"

"Really." Bruce finally turned, a snide comment on his lips. "Well, I guess I just don't get to see that many well-dressed citizens back in –" He stopped, startled, as he saw the girl standing next to Miss Lewis. She noticed his expression and smiled as she looked him over appraisingly. He couldn't help but stare.

Jarella Kai was a strikingly beautiful girl. Her long, flowing hair was yellow – not blonde, but yellow, like the petals of a forsythia. Her lips were full and smiling, her form most definitely feminine. She wore a long, slim gown of purple and red that followed her form perfectly, and her skin was like silk. _Green_ silk. Bruce had never seen anything so amazing in his life, and she was smiling. At _him_.

Lewis cleared her throat. "Jarella is using this opportunity to prove to her father that she's ready to design her own line." The escort waited for a response, but the two were still staring, only now into each other's eyes. She couldn't help but chuckle. "Okay. I think you two will get along. I'll let you… get to know each other." She left quietly, leaving the room in slightly awkward silence until Jarella broke it.

"Mr. Banner." She extended a delicate, green-skinned hand. "I realize my appearance might seem odd to someone not from the Capitol –"

"No, no, you're beautiful. I mean, it's beautiful. Your appearance. It's…it's… " His eyes widened as he put a hand to his forehead, realized she was waiting, and then put out his hand and shook hers solemnly. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Please… call me Bruce."

The young woman's smile grew warmer, and Bruce only realized at that moment that she was probably just about his age. "Hello, Bruce." Her voice was soft, but had a confident power behind it. Clearly she had been in professional situations before. "Shall we sit down? I have many ideas for your outfit…"

They moved to the small table in his room and sat. Jarella appeared to be completely self-assured; although a more practiced observer might have noticed her breathing was quick, and her heart was pounding. Bruce, although he was usually a 'practiced observer', felt like he was thirteen again. She pulled out a tablet and stylus, crossed one long leg over the other. A spill of green skin caught his eye as he noticed the high slit in her gown. "Do you have a favorite colour?"

Without thinking, he blurted out, "Green." She might have blushed as he mumbled further, "And, ah, blue. I like those. But anything, really. Whatever you want to do to me is fine. _With_ me. No, I mean… " He rubbed his hands on his face and decided to shut up.

She gave a soft laugh, and then squinted at him thoughtfully. The stylus danced on the tablet as she drew.

Bruce tried to watch her sketch but found he was much more interested in her eyes and the way they shone like emeralds when she glanced at him, the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked. Even the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating. At one point, she reached over and touched his arm, squeezing his bicep through his loose shirt.

"So you have muscles under there. You hide them?"

Bruce laughed. "I wouldn't say I have muscles, really… I mean, we have to do these crazy workouts every day at the school, but –"

"Can you remove your shirt, please? Just so I know what I'm working with…"

He blinked but stood and pulled the long sleeved shirt over his head. He left the tank undershirt on and was about to speak when he saw a disappointed look in her eyes. At first he thought it was his build that disappointed her – but realized with a start that she was staring at the gold heart hanging against his chest. _Oh, God. Betty._

"You hold someone's heart, I see?" She tried to sound breezy and casual, but failed rather miserably.

He tried to start a thought once or twice, stopped, and exhaled a deep breath. "Honestly? I'm not sure. If I win the games, I don't think she'll ever look at me the same way… and if I _die_…well… I just… I don't know. I don't think she knows, either."

Jarella brightened slightly as she saw the look in his eyes, and she spoke softly. "Then she's a fool." She gave his arm a more gentle squeeze before releasing it and going back to sketching, adding in a very professional tone, "You have a very nice body, Bruce." She lifted her eyes to him once more, tracing the proportions from his shoulders, to his waist, to his hips. "Very nice."

He definitely blushed.

Fifteen minutes later, she turned the tablet and showed him a drawing. He squinted at it, then sighed. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his glasses. With an almost apologetic look at her, he put them on. She tilted her head.

"You must wear those?"

"Only when I'm doing detail work. I know, they look –"

She stood and adjusted the glasses on his nose, then teased her fingers through his curls, styling his hair. "Yes. They're perfect. You're an academic in them, a scholar. You _must_ wear them for the interview - with a more formal suit, of course. You will stun the crowd! Intelligent, but humble, so accessible…" She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook, opening it to scribble down things she would need.

Bruce opened his mouth, realized he had nothing to say, and closed it again with a shrug. For a moment he waited, then sat down and looked at the image on her tablet. It was clearly him - perhaps a bit more muscular than he would admit to – wearing a form-fitting outfit of purple and deep blue. The pattern looked familiar to him. Abruptly, it clicked.

"Wait. You can't put me out there in Sentinel armor! They'd kill me before I ever got to the arena!"

She frowned thoughtfully. "But it won't be armor, you see? It will be sleek, like a bodysuit. It will show how fearless you are! How bold! How the ones in power could never fight like you. You, who are forced to fight for their pleasure." He frowned, and she let out a breath. "Alright, I admit. I want to say something. I want to make a statement – but you! You're perfect for the image I want to portray."

He shook his head nervously. "I don't know, Jarella. I'm all for making a statement, but I don't think I want to look anything that much like a Sentinel. Not the best inspiration for me."

She blinked, nodded, and tapped a few controls on the tablet. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip, then made one more adjustment. "There. What do you think?"

Bruce looked at the picture. Now, the figure was in purple and green… the exact green that she was. He looked up at her, and she glanced away, almost embarrassed, to focus on the image again with a sigh.

"I'm afraid it will be a bit like wearing my skin…"

Bruce swallowed hard. He looked at it again for a few moments, and then smiled. "I like it. The colour. I mean, the whole thing…" He exhaled a small laugh. "I think you're very talented."

"Thank you." She let a little smile out and reached into her bag. "I'll just need some numbers." She pulled out a measuring tape, tapped a few times on her tablet and brought up some kind of form. Her voice deepened slightly as she spoke to it. "Client; Bruce Banner. Male, fair, dark curly hair, seventeen." She turned and looked at him, squinting slightly. "Brown eyes. A comfortably muscular build." She frowned and looked at the tablet. "Hold."

It was Bruce's turn to frown. "Hold?"

"It waits. A very agreeable assistant. Do you know what size shoes you wear?"

"Well, I –"

"Nevermind. I have this." She scooped up the tablet, laid the tape measure next to his foot and pointed the tablet at them. A brief second later, it beeped. Jarella turned it over and nodded. "Good. Now let me measure you…"

Five minutes later she was still taking measurements, calling out names and numbers in an order that she was clearly familiar with, but totally puzzling to Bruce. When she got to things like inseam, girth and rise, he found himself trying desperately to think of anything but this beautiful girl confidently wielding a tape measure… in the hope that he wouldn't change any of his measurements _while_ she was measuring. If she noticed his unease, she was gracious enough to ignore it. Finally, she was finished, and he let out a long breath.

"Thank you, Bruce. I'm sure this will look amazing on you!"

"No, thank you…" He looked down at the floor, tilting his head, not quite knowing what to say. "I… I appreciate your work. I do. Thank you."

She smiled, pursing her lips slightly. "We're not finished yet. I may have to do a couple fittings with you before it's ready to go…"

Their eyes met again, and he grinned. "Whatever it takes, Ms. Kai."

Jarella's grin matched his. "Far too formal for a woman who will be dressing you."

He exhaled a laugh. "Okay."

She looked up at him again, her emerald eyes shining. "If you like, you can call me 'Ella'."


	10. No Second Chances

**(A/N) - We'****re back with another oneshot, from our fabulous Canucklehead Cowgirl on our Canucklehead tribute's last year before his Reaping. Thanks to all our readers and reviewers! **

* * *

**No Second Chances**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

_"Whoever said 'It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all', obviously has never lost_."

\- Anonymous

* * *

That day, sixteen year old Logan's task was a simple one ... hauling some dull chains into town to be sharpened and picking up what they needed to keep the cutting on schedule. It was unusual for him to be in town during the day like that, but there he was anyhow, half a dozen cutting chains draped over his shoulder as he made his way into the shop.

"Gimmie a minute, kid," the scaler told him. "Gotta pull 'em off the bench. Go take a walk, come back in twenty minutes. Smitty won't miss ya that long." Logan nodded and stepped outside. The scaler was a hard nosed piece of work, and he didn't take too kindly to anyone hanging around while he 'worked'.

Logan didn't have anywhere to go, so he just leaned on the post outside the store near the bittersweet vine that had snaked its way around the guard rail. He spent his time watching a handful of people as they went about their business. Most kids his age were in school, but he'd made himself useful enough to the loggers that no one cared.

Bright, clear laughter cut through the square and he turned, freezing when he inadvertently locked eyes with one of the prettiest girls in the district. She smiled wider at him when her friend grabbed her arm, prompting her to move along. He found himself smiling back when she peeked over her shoulder at him and waved.

"Gonna get yourself in trouble, boy," the scaler's voice said from the open doorway. "That girl's father is a real pain in the ass. Don't go sniffin' around her. You'll end up hurtin'."

"Like I got time for that anyhow," Logan replied. The scaler clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder with a chuckle.

"And that's why Smitty likes you so damn much. Keep it up and you'll be fillin' his shoes in no time. Come on, lets' get them cuttin' chains. Can't be holdin' ya up much longer."

It would be well over a month before he saw her again.

* * *

"How come I don't ever see you in town?" It was the bright, clear voice of the pretty Native girl Logan had seen as she tapped him on the shoulder. "Your name is Logan, right?" He just nodded, unsure of which way this would go. It wasn't unusual for someone to berate him on his name. Tom Logan was a real piece of work that caused a lot of trouble and had been cruel to anyone who even looked at him cross.

"You can call me Silver Fox," she said with a grin. "You should come into town more often. The girls from the tribe usually stick around until supper time."

"I'm not usually anywhere near town," Logan replied.

"Then it's going to be a lot harder for me to find you," she said with a grin, squeezing his wrist. "See you around, Logan." He smiled as he gave her a curt nod. It was just too bad he wasn't ever in town. If he had any time when he wasn't working, he'd be around a lot more now.

* * *

A chill was in the air and by horrible tragedy, the logging crew was taking a day off. A vital piece of machinery had been smashed by a twisting tree, killing half a dozen men and pinning another three.

While they cleared the wreckage, Smitty sent Logan off. He had told him to find something to entertain himself with. Word had gotten back to Smitty on how the little Native girl had taken a shining to the young man and Smitty wanted Logan to relax a little. But, Logan was more concerned about the coming winter.

He was stalking up on a deer, crouched and quiet, a long bowie knife in his hand. He didn't see her watching him from across the way. When he got close he darted in and wrapped an arm around the deer's neck with one arm while he quickly cut its throat with the other, stepping back immediately while the buck took a few steps only to collapse and bleed out before him. He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped forward after it had stilled.

"I've only ever seen one other hunter do that. Our men use spears," Fox said quietly as she walked up on him. He was on his feet and backing up, nervous now. Hunting was frowned upon, unless you were in the tribe. "Don't worry, I won't tell," she said quietly. She kneeled down next to the deer and pulled a knife from her boot, wordlessly going to work on the animal as she started to clean it. She made short work of it, and when she was finished, she asked if she could bring some home.

Of course, he gave her what she could carry.

"Tomorrow, after you're done with work, meet me here," she said quietly. He agreed and was rewarded with a smile as she silently disappeared into the trees.

From there, the two spent more and more time until every spare moment was spent together as their little romance quickly blossomed. They walked in the woods for hours, Sundays were entirely for them to disappear, and for the most part, no one cared as long as she was back to school, and he was back to work Monday morning.

But he wasn't allowed in the Tribe's Camp, and he'd never consider bringing her near that camp of roughnecks he was stuck with. The woods and river was the only places they could go for any peace together. By winter's end, the two were hopelessly in love, with big plans.

* * *

It was a rough winter. People were dying from the cold – a joke in a district where wood was their lifeblood. No one should freeze. Starve, perhaps ... but freeze?

Logan had taken to trapping quite well, and Fox had been showing him easier ways to set the snares – the furs far more valuable than almost anything in cold months like these. They were walking the trap line, and he'd gotten a fair number of beautiful furs when he came across the first ruined set. He'd caught something ... but something else had come and eaten it.

She looked troubled as Logan looked to the snow for answers. But that would have to wait. The fresh layer of powder had nearly obscured his catches – let alone the footprints of the little thief that had come to clean his sets for him. Aside from a tiny bit of blood on the snow, there wasn't anything left to give him a clue as to who or what, his thief was.

Two more weeks of the same until Fox showed him a new snare. It was heavy enough to catch a bear, and needed to be anchored just as deeply, but it was small.

"This will catch your thief," she promised as he carefully laid the traps. When they came back to check them, they knew it had worked. There were perfect furs at the beginning of the trap line, then three ruined sets with nothing more than a scrap of fur left behind. But, when they hit the next set, a snarl ripped through the air like neither had ever heard before. Cautiously they approached only to find a much smaller creature than they'd expected for all the noise and damage it had done.

Almost four feet long and only about as tall as their knees, the little brown and tan creature was far more ferocious than they'd expected. On scenting the two teens, he'd started to fight to escape again, rolling and snarling as he chewed at his foot, a desperate bid to break free. Fox stayed back as Logan approached it, stopping where he knew the end of the snare would reach. The little snarly beast dove for him, and would have happily attacked had he been any closer. He watched it for a moment as he prepared to kill the little creature.

"I know that look. You can't let it go, Logan – a wolverine will track you. They are vengeful. It will find you and kill you if it can," she warned. She could see that in spite of the fact that this little beast had destroyed his catches, he admired it. He'd heard the stories too, but wasn't sure if he believed them.

Ultimately though, it didn't matter. He'd never make any money this winter with this little guy tearing up his catches.

"I hate to do it to ya, bub, but I gotta survive too," he said before looping a different snare over the growling little animal's neck and pulling tight. The wolverine snarled and twisted and fought like nothing Logan had ever seen until finally, it went limp and silent.

"He'll bring you a good fee. I'll bet he's been cleaning out others trap lines too," Fox told him as he knelt in the snow next to the creature. He'd felt bad about this one. He fought to the end.

"No," Logan said quietly. "I'm not selling this one." She laughed at his response.

"Of course not. You have too much in common," she teased. "For that, let me take a claw," she said with a smile, kneeling down next to him and cutting off one of the bigger claws on it, scraping clean what she could of the flesh touching it and rubbing salt into it from a pouch on her belt.

"What are you gonna do with that?" he asked with a smirk. She returned the look as she shifted her weight and dug under the layers of furs and flannels that were keeping her warm. When the little medicine bag made its appearance the smile fell from his face. Now he understood.

"I think this will help me," she said with a grin. "Because I think this little animal is your guide, and you are my beloved." Before she opened the bag, she paused and looked up at him. "Don't move," she said with a grin as she leaned forward, her wrist resting on his shoulder as he frowned at her.

"What are you doin' now, woman?" he asked, a tone of curiosity in his voice, though he did as she asked and remained still.

"I need a lock of hair. Hold still, I don't want to cut you," she replied. Seconds later, her prize in her little hand, she set both the hair and the claw in her lap as she very carefully opened the medicine bag, just a tiny bit. She then wrapped the claw with his hair and speaking in her native tongue, she recited a little prayer of her own design before she slipped both into the little buckskin pouch and sealed it again.

She'd explained the medicine bag to him before, and he knew she was never without it. He didn't know if he believed in such things, but if it made her feel better, he'd never question it.

"You really think that's gonna help you? The little fur ball and me?"

"Yes, I do. More than you know," she teased as he helped her to her feet and they continued on their way. "You really are very much like your little thief," she teased as they continued down the trap line, full of perfect furs for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Logan stretched out in the tall grass as he took in the warm sun, his eyes closed.

"You gonna act like you're asleep all mornin'?" he asked, cracking an eye open with a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he turned his head toward her. She'd been wriggling the slightest bit and as he peeked at her, the most beautiful smile spread across her face. He closed his eyes again, taking in a deep, relaxed breath as a laugh, clear as the icy water running down the mountain broke the air, pulling his smile wider.

"Just watching you sleep," was Fox's answer as she rearranged herself to lean across his chest, playfully pinning his shoulders to the ground; her shadow blocked the sun from his face. That was enough to get him to finally open his icy blues that she said she loved so much. He lifted up enough to pull his hand from behind his head and rest it on her hip.

Sundays were used for work too now, to take advantage of the weather. They didn't get to spend too much time in leisure during the warm months, especially after such a bad winter. Only today. Reaping day.

"Come on, let's cut outta here," he told her. "Use the spot where the trees cross the fence. I'll help you climb it." She smiled wider before leaning down and kissing him tenderly.

"I don't need your help to climb it, and you know we can't disappear today. In fact, we shouldn't even think about it until next year. Get through our last Reapings, then we leave. Only, under cover of darkness after the Sentinels have passed out in the bar. Not when they're wound up tightly and looking for trouble," she was laughing by the end of her suggestion. It was well known that even though the Sentinels were terribly strict on Reaping day, the night following it was always spent getting just as drunk as the biggest drinkers once the entourage from the Capitol was gone. Celebration of another year in the books. Another year with no trouble. Just handing over another pair to be slaughtered as payment for another year for everyone else to live. Sacrificial lambs.

His eyes fell to her hands as she traced patterns on his chest. "Don't worry so much, Logan. They hardly ever pick someone from the tribe, and your name isn't in that often. You've never put in for more. We both should be safe."

"I know," he grumbled, taking her hand in his. "Be just our luck though, don't you think?"

"So negative. You will come out of this perfectly fine. I know it." He raised an eyebrow at her, a little silent challenge that she answered with a bright laugh and a kiss.

"Next year," Fox said. "Wait one year, and I promise you, we will leave and never look back."

He looked skeptical as he replied. "One year." She smiled again as she nodded, light dancing in her eyes as the wind caught her raven black hair and blew it back from her face. "Alright. If you insist, I'll wait – for you."

She leaned back down, and as she kissed him, he pulled her closer, one hand fisted into her hair as she smiled against his mouth as he rolled her onto her back. They spent as much time as they could right there, hidden in the tall grass of the little meadow, lost in their tiny world consisting of just the two of them and the wide open sky over the tall grass and nearby trees.

He grumbled when she finally broke free from him at the sound of the bells calling in those of age for Reaping.

"We have to go," she said with a sad smile, pulling on his arm once she'd gotten to her feet.

"You're pullin' the wrong way," he countered, tipping his head toward the woods. Her shoulders dropped and she kneeled down next to him again as he sat up.

"We agreed ... now come on, we can come right back here in a few hours. I promise." She sealed her promise with a final kiss and the two quickly headed for the square, hand in hand for the last time.


	11. Hide and Seek

**(A/N) - And we're back with another bit of fun before the storm breaks in the arena, featuring Kate and a couple of lords... With Boss Nick back in town, the main fic should be picking up again soon! In the meantime, thank you to the VengefulVixens,** **eponineoswinoswald221b, and GeekyComicBookGuy for their reviews!**

* * *

**Hide and Seek**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve and Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by robbiepoo2341 and abrokencastiel**

_"All you have to do is look appealingly up into his eyes, and you shan't be able to stop him! There is a very great deal of the repressed knight errant in Peter Almsley."_

_"And in another Peter as well," she retorted._

_\- The Serpent's Shadow,_ Mercedes Lackey

* * *

Kate beamed as she practically skipped down the hallway to the elevator, still wearing her interview outfit. Things had gone about as well as could be expected. She'd made everyone smile and even laugh a couple times, which was encouraging. And people seemed to be genuinely taken with her smile, just like Noh Varr had coached her.

He'd offered to help her change into something "more comfortable" afterwards, but she'd asked if she could just keep wearing the adorable purple outfit. It was _comfortable_ and _swishy_, and she liked the way she felt in it. Sort of like she could take on anything in the world.

So she wore it around her room as she bounced around, trying to get rid of some of the nervous energy from the interviews. She'd tried to bother Loki, but he had disappeared on her, and Blackagar was deep in conversation, talking fast with just his hands, with Ian. Probably discussing how best to use their tributes' scores and interviews to get sponsors.

Which meant, of course, that the floor on Level Twelve was _boring_. She messed around in the hallways for a bit, practicing her somersaults and such, but she was fast running out of ways to get rid of all this_energy._

So that's how she ended up in the elevator, headed down to the common room. She figured she couldn't be the only person with this much leftover energy.

The elevator stopped after only a few floors, and Kate looked up with a broad grin as Peter Parker stepped inside. She'd seen him around at lunches and such, and he was _always_ good fun. She and Kurt had even invited him to sit with them during meals, and she could still feel her sore cheeks from laughing so hard only yesterday before the assessments.

"Hiya, Peter," she beamed at him.

The elevator doors slid closed as Peter looked Kate up and down with a smile. "I didn't know we were supposed to maintain the fancy look all night." He'd quickly shed his blue and red suit after the interviews. Not that he didn't like the fact the suit actually fit him, but he preferred the freedom of movement his sweatpants gave him.

Kate laughed and spun around. "Are you kidding?" she gushed. "I'm_ never_ taking this off!" When she'd finished spinning, she stopped and looked him over. "Kinda miss the suit, Pete. You looked great!"

"And I don't look great now? I was told the hoodie and sweats combo was the height of fashion." He shook his head sadly. "My stylist has lied to me. I can never trust again. And now I'm going to have to hide my face for the rest of the night." He pulled his hoodie up and gave his best sad eyes to Kate. "It's alright if you don't want to be seen with me, I understand."

Kate burst out laughing, then tried desperately to compose her face into what she hoped was a stern expression. "You may be right," she said in mock seriousness. "I think we clash too awfully to be seen together. The beauty queen and last year's 'lazy jogger' look?" She clucked her tongue at him, shaking her head.

The elevator stopped, and Peter shrank back into the corner as the doors opened. "I can't let anyone see me, not like this!"

Kate tilted her head at Peter, and a grin slowly spread over her face. She jammed her fist into the "door close" button and leaned back, crossing her arms.

"Let's play a game," she said. "You don't want anyone to see you? You better be _real _good at hiding."

When Pete lowered his hoodie and started to grin, she knew she was on to something, so she continued, "If I catch you, you gotta escort me through the common room like a mighty warrior princess. And if you win..."

She paused, trying to think of something appropriately awesome.

"If I win, you have to announce me whenever I walk into a room, like this." Peter stood at attention. "Now presenting Peter Parker, Lord of the Spiders. All hail!" He grinned. "And I mean _every_ time I walk into a room. Even if I leave and come right back in."

Kate giggled as the elevator opened up to ... what floor had she pushed without looking? ... the fifth floor. "Elevators are for losers. You can only use the stairs," she said, and he nodded his assent. She bowed to him dramatically and waved him out the door. "May the odds be ever in your favour," she deadpanned.

The doors closed behind Peter, and the game was on.

She rode the elevator back up to the sixth floor and then got out, running past the rooms that, she supposed, Sin and Bruce were using. Her dress made a wonderful swishy noise with every step she took, which meant, of course, that she was anything but sneaky. But that didn't matter, since Pete was the one who had to be sneaky anyway. She just had to _catch_ him.

"Ready or not!" she bellowed as she found the door to the stairwell and practically pitched herself down the stairs, sliding on the railing like she was six years old.

Peter's shoes skidded down the stairs as Kate's yell echoed behind him. He spun around another landing and opened the next door, dashing in and taking quick stock. Third floor. No one was visible as Peter took off down the hall. He took the first open door, literally running into a very surprised Pepper.

"_What the_?"

"Shh! I'm not here, okay?" Peter spun her by the shoulders, slipping over and sliding under her bed. He lifted the bed skirt and winked at her before letting it fall back into place.

Kate grinned, feeling for the first time since she'd gotten to the Capitol like she was actually having _fun._ She'd heard a door close, but she wasn't sure if it was the fourth or the third floor. (No way he'd gotten any lower than that; she hadn't given him enough time.)

She wrenched open the door to the fourth floor and was surprised to see her own district partner there, talking with his brother. Neither looked pleased.

She rushed past them. "You seen a kid in a hoodie run by here?" she called over her shoulder at Loki.

Loki just frowned at her, but his brother, Thor, grinned. "Are you playing a game?" he shouted at her as she kept running.

"Maybe!" she shouted back. "No go on this floor, then?"

Thor laughed. "No, but I wish you luck on your quest!"

Kate snorted as she burst through the stairwell on the other end of floor four. No wonder Loki was always annoyed when she tried to get him to smile. He had a chipper teddy bear of a brother.

She burst onto the third floor and very nearly ran into Pepper, who had apparently been making her way to the elevator.

"Sorry!" she said.

Pepper frowned. "What is this, an invasion?"

Kate grinned. Ah, so Peter _was_ here.

The door to Pepper's room was still open, and Peter could hear the swishing of Kate's dress growing closer. He concentrated on quieting his breathing. Her footsteps stopped just inside the room.

"Peter," Kate called. "You in here?"

He tensed, ready to make a break for it if she gave him the chance.

"I certainly hope not," said a new voice, and Kate spun around, her face bright pink as she found herself just inches from Tony, who was smirking and eyeing her up and down. "I like to think I'd notice if someone was hiding in Pep's room."

Kate tried to get her face not to look so red. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I just ... Pete and I were playing a game. I saw the door was open ..."

Tony smirked at her. "Aren't you a little _old_ for hide-and-seek?"

"If I were too old for Games, would I be here right now?" Kate pointed out.

Tony's smirk faded just the slightest bit before he sighed and waved his hand at her. "Fair point," he said, then smiled, rubbing his hands together. "Well, shall we look together?"

Kate almost agreed but then shook her head. "I might forfeit the game if I get help," she said. "You just ... go annoy someone else."

Tony pursed his lips at her and looked like he might argue, but then he seemed to think better of it and grinned instead, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed. "Try the closet," he suggested.

The closet was on the opposite side of the room, and Peter mentally congratulated himself for choosing the bed. He gingerly lifted the skirt and watched as Kate opened the door and stepped inside. The closet was walk-in and filled with more clothes than anyone would have time to wear. As Kate stealthily moved into the clothes, Peter quietly rolled out from under the bed.

"How original," Tony said with a grin as Peter came into view.

"Did you say something?" Kate asked.

Peter shot him a look.

Tony got a look in his eye that Peter knew too well. It was the look he got right before he beat Peter at chess. "Just making a comment about the bug problem in this room. They're crawling out from under the bed."

Instantly, Peter was on his feet and taking off for the stairwell. "Revenge is sweet, Tony!" he yelled over his shoulder at the laughing teen.

Kate probably could have made it out of the closet faster if she hadn't gotten the edge of her skirt caught in some dangly belt thing near the door. In the few seconds it took to get untangled, she saw Peter disappear out of the door.

Grinning, she took off running past Tony and shot him a short little wave as she went. She skidded to a stop out in the hallway and whirled around, her sharp eyes spotting the movement on the far end of the hallway, by the stairwell.

She huffed. "Great. More stairs." Then, she took off again.

Peter took the stairs two at a time as he rushed up them. The door below clanged open and he could hear Kate rushing up the steps behind him.

"You're going to have to move faster than that to catch me!" he called.

"Just you wait, Pete! I've got you right where I want you!" she yelled back.

A laugh escaped him as he hit the landing for Five's floor. He dashed inside and rushed for the other stairwell. A person stepped out of a room, and Peter slid to a stop before a collision could occur.

"Peter?"

"Quill!"

"What are you doing on my floor?" Peter Quill's eyebrows rose at the brown haired teen.

"There's a girl chasing me," Peter replied quickly, anxiously glancing behind him at the door where Kate was sure to emerge at any moment.

Quill laughed and crossed his arms. "Been there before. Is it one of the red-heads? They seem pretty feisty."

"What? No. Not like that. We're—" The stairwell door started opening, and Peter's eyes widened.

"In here," Quill pushed Peter into the room, and the teen flattened himself to the wall. Quill positioned himself in the doorway and leaned against the frame, blocking the view into the room.

Kate burst out onto the floor. She _knew_ Peter had to be here somewhere. There was _no_ way he could have made it to the other end of the hallway in time … right?

Her eyes roved the hallway, searching for any clues. She spotted an open door and grinned. "Gotcha," she muttered.

But as she approached the doorway, she realized just why it was open as she spotted ... what was his name? She remembered his Games name as Star Prince or something ... standing there with his arms crossed, grinning at her like a lunatic.

"You'll wear yourself out before the Games even start running around like that, kid," he said.

She paused, trying to look past him into the room beyond. "You kidding?" she said with a grin as, failing to find any evidence of Peter, she focused on the Star Person in front of her. "I've got energy to spare."

"Uh-huh." Star Dude was grinning at her. "And you just decided to run around dressed like a murderous catwalk model because ...?"

She stifled a giggle. "Oh, right. Well, I like the dress," she said, swishing it around some more. It was longer in the back and was fun to twirl. "And then I ran into Peter – that's my friend – and, well..." She shrugged. "We figured maybe it'd be fun to play a game or two before we have to go into the more deadly games."

Something strange passed over Star Man's face as he looked Kate over, but it went as quickly as it appeared, and the sanguine grin soon returned. "Well," he said slowly, "I thought I heard someone pass our room going that way." He pointed toward the end of the hallway. "You must have just missed him."

Kate sized him up, trying to tell if he was lying or not, but it was hard to see anything past his smirk and swagger. But he was a mentor, so she figured maybe he'd tell the truth. "Thanks," she breathed before she took off again.

Quill watched the girl run down the hall. "Aaaaannnnd she's gone." He pushed off from where he was leaning and made room for the boy to exit.

Peter leaned out, double checking for himself. Sure the coast was clear, he grinned at the victor. "Thanks."

"Us Peters need to stick together. At least in matters like this."

"You mean you won't send me a care package in the arena?" Peter asked.

"Not a chance." Quill smirked.

Peter laughed as he slipped by and backed toward the stairwell Kate took. "Not room enough for two Peters in the victor circle, huh?"

"I have a couple others I'd like to see walk away first. No offense."

"None taken." Peter turned and jogged for the exit. He saluted before leaving. "See ya later, Starkid."

"Star_lord_," Quill corrected as Peter slipped through the door. He took the opposite stairwell as Kate and headed down, sure that she was headed _up_.

Kate spent the next thirty minutes or so running up and down stairs. She bumped into a few tributes and escorts on her way, but most of them were adamant that they hadn't seen or heard anything. ("And besides," the mentors would usually say, "it's getting rather late for games, isn't it?")

So, at last, she made her way to the elevator, exhausted but still grinning. She went down to the common area, where she spotted Peter, sitting with his feet up on the table in front of the couch and munching happily on some popcorn. There weren't any other tributes there—it was rather late—but there was a broken chess piece on the floor. (She wondered if maybe Peter had an argument with it.) When he spotted her, he stood up, grinning, and ran back out of the door, only to return a moment later, staring at her expectantly.

Kate stifled a giggle at the look on his face, took a deep breath, and bellowed for everyone to hear: "Now presenting Peter Parker, Lord of the Spiders. All hail!"


	12. Let's Kill The Mentors

**(A/N) - While the blood is flowing back in the Games and we're sadly saying goodbye to some of these kids, let's go back to the Capitol, before the death and destruction. This one-shot features the lovely Silmarilz1701 and Canucklehead Cowgirl and their incredibly bull-headed mentors!**

* * *

**Let's Kill The Mentors!**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six and Logan Howlett of District Seven**

**Written by Silmarilz1701 and Canucklehead Cowgirl**

"_There is nothing wrong with revenge. The wrong has already been done, or there would be no need to even the score." - Ashly Lorenzana_

* * *

_"You'll never be worthy! You'll always be a failure, just like your whore of a mother!"_

Sinthea brushed away a lone tear that fell from her left eye. Allergies, that's all it was. It wasn't because of the verbal abuse she'd just suffered from her father and mentor, Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull.

Even though it certainly wasn't that, she kept walking swiftly down the stairs out of her room and into the common area of her floor. Bruce was nowhere to be seen, and Darcy was out somewhere. It had just been Sinthea and her father.

"Come back here!" her father shouted from the top of the stairs as Sinthea just kept moving. "Damn it, girl, I said come back here!"

Sinthea didn't listen. She had to get away. She had to keep moving. Sinthea looked at the bowl of fruit as she passed it and saw the strange-looking dragon fruit. It reminded her of her talk with Bruce on the train. Back when he'd admitted that his own father "was an ass" just like her own.

Her father was an ass. And if she stayed with him right now any longer, they would come to blows. She was more like her father than she enjoyed admitting. She was rude, rash, angry, and driven by emotion. Just like Johann Schmidt.

Sinthea kept walking until she reached the door of her district's suite. She opened the door, walked through, and slammed it shut in defiance. But now where would she go? She wasn't friends with any tribute, so she couldn't go visit any of the floors, even if that was allowed, and she wasn't sure about that. But she couldn't just go back inside. She'd be beaten to shreds, or, if she had it her way, she'd end up beating up her mentor.

Her father had been so angry with her because she'd gotten a six on the scores for private assessments. He'd expected, nay, he'd demanded better. And she'd failed. Her measly score of six had not been enough for the daughter of the Red Skull.

So rooftop it was. Heading down the short hallway to the elevator, Sinthea hopped inside and pressed the button for the very top floor. The roof. She had heard rumours that the Careers had met up here sometime previously.

But when she arrived, she quickly realized that she wasn't alone. The sound of small explosions echoed across the rooftop, and it took her little time to see what the source of the disturbance was. The burly kid from Seven was tossing pebbles at the force field … apparently just to watch them explode.

Sinthea crept forward quietly, trying to get a better read on the kid. Logan was his name, she remembered. Well, James, but he went by Logan. After all, she remembered watching his reaping. "James Howlett." That's what they'd announced. Why the hell would he be up here?

"You really gonna try sneakin' up on me, Red?" His tone was gruff, and he hadn't looked over his shoulder as he continued to toss the occasional pebble over the edge.

She sneered in the dark before walking calmly and confidently into the light of the large floodlights. "Worth a try."

"What the hell're you doin up so damn late anyhow? Past yer bedtime, ain't it?" Logan finally turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised in question. He looked irritated himself. Must have been that kind of night for everyone.

"You act all high and mighty, but you aren't any different from the rest of us," Sinthea pointed out. "You're a kid, just like me and Bruce and Tony and Pepper. So don't you dare be talking down to me."

He considered her for a moment and just grunted in response before muttering out a "whatever" and turning back to tossing pebbles at the force field, a little more force to his throws than he'd been using.

_High an' mighty. Right. That's a new one,_ he thought to himself. She didn't like it when he pointed out her youth. He could almost feel the anger radiating off of her.

"Here … throw a few. It's kinda entertainin' when they blow up." He offered her a handful of pebbles, largely ignoring her irritation.

Sinthea glared at him in suspicion, convinced he had something up his sleeve, but she took them anyways. She began tossing them off the side of the roof, watching as each individual rock made its own kind of explosion.

Each time a rock left her hand, she imagined it was her father's head. It would hit the force field, sizzle, and then _poof!_ It was gone. It actually made her feel slightly better.

He just watched her as her smirk grew slowly before going back to it himself, the two of them taking turns watching the rocks disappear in an almost perfect imitation of fireworks.

"So, James," Sinthea smirked, using his birth name, "what brings _you_ up here?"

"First of all, it's Logan. And I should ask you the same question. Some jackass was gettin' on my nerves. Can't toss him over, so rocks it is."

She snorted. "I know the feeling. Damn mentor of mine is an _ass_, as Bruce puts it."

He looked at her a little harder now. "Yeah? Join the club." There wasn't much to be said. Crappy situation for all of them; no way out, really. The pebbles that had vaporized gave silent testimony to that.

"They think they know everything. They think they're better than us. But they're wrong. We're better. We're stronger. They didn't have it as bad as us."

She was of course thinking of her own father as she spoke. Johann Schmidt had been a wealthier citizen of District Six. He'd never grown up in the slums of the district. He'd had cake for his birthday, he'd attended school only, not working in the factory until his late years. Sinthea? Sinthea had worked since she was seven, had had a cake on her birthday once in her life, and attended school only most days, as she spent some time nursing wounds she suffered from her life as a gang member.

"We'll show them." She nearly shouted as she threw a particularly large pebble down onto the force field with quite an arm.

"Ya try hittin' him?" he teased. "Better'n throwin' pebbles."

She bared her teeth like an angry cat. "I almost did. Then Darcy got between us. Lady's got nerve, I'll give her that."

"Huh." He thought it over for a minute before responding deeper, hesitating before divulging, "Broke Creed's nose. Jubes missed the show, but she's barely left me alone with him since. Gonna end up payin' for it, I'm sure. Just don't know how yet. He gets a kick outta pushin' me. Probably better off ya didn't really throw down with yer old man."

Sinthea outright grinned. "So that's why he was sporting the black eyes and tape. Bravo! And it's worth whatever they throw at you. After all, you need to make every moment count." She paused, thinking about the latter part of his statement. "He isn't a father to me. He's a murderer. A maniac. A traitor. _Not family_."

"Family like that ain't worth the air they're stealin' from everyone else just breathing."

"Yeah." She trailed off, thinking about home. About her real family.

Crossbones and Grandma Scarbo were the closest things to family she'd had. Now they were gone. She couldn't communicate with them. She hoped that Brock hadn't gone and gotten himself killed without her.

She _also_ hoped her "father" lost his footing on the stairs and broke his neck, though. Just for good measure, she threw another two pebbles off the side.

"If you end up winnin' … you got anything to look forward to? That is, aside from stealin' yer daddy's thunder?" he teased, one eyebrow raised with a playful smirk on his lips.

She smiled. "That's the main idea. Make them remember the _younger_ Schmidt. The _better_ Schmidt. I don't really know what I'll do after, other than spend a ton of money on pointless shit. How about you?"

He sighed, thinking it over. It really wasn't something he'd worked that far out yet. "I'll kill Creed."

She looked surprised, but eager. "You think that's an option? Because I'd love to kill my father!"

"If I gotta spend the rest of my life livin' next door to that sonofabitch, yeah. It's about the only option."

"You know, what're they gonna do to us if we kill them, even if we do it now? They're already sending us to our deaths. At least most of us anyway. What else can they do?" Sinthea pointed out.

"Nothin' to me. I don't have anyone back home. No family, no friends. Not even a damn dog."

She snorted, "Really? You look like the animal type."

"Nothin' domestic," he replied with a mischievous look in his eyes. "Nothin' that couldn't take care of itself without me."

"My first kill was a goddamn rat that ran into my room when I was eight. Stupid thing was scared. It had a good reason to be, too." She smirked at him, grabbing another pebble from the pile at his feet. She threw it out over the rail, and it went up in an explosion.

"Is that your biggest kill to date, Red?"

"You wish. Nah, I've put a couple people into the grave." She exaggerated this last bit a little, for her greatest kill was when someone she fought died when their non-fatal wounds had gotten infected. But he didn't need to know those details. After all, she _had_ managed to kill one other gang member in self-defence.

He just smirked, not buying it for a minute. She was a toughie, but he had a hard time believing any of them had gone that far. Outside of the convicted murderer, that is. Most of 'em hadn't even been in a damn fight, as far as he could tell. He was thinking about Kurt, Parker, 'Ro, Pepper … even Sin's district partner … Bruce. None of them looked like they knew the first thing about defending themselves, let alone attacking someone or killing in cold blood.

She picked a small pebble and held it in her hand. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to make all her anticipation and fear flow into it before tossing it over the railing.

"What do you think of the Careers, Lumber-boy?"

"They're a buncha assholes. But if you want specifics, you'll have to clarify who."

Sinthea shrugged. "Mainly the archer and the redhead. Girl's not letting on about all her skills, or I'm a gopher. And the boy… something's strange about him. Almost too nice to be a Career."

"She's a liar. It's all show with that one. Far as the others go, I'm keepin' my eye on the nutjob in One."

She snorted and scoffed. "Which one? The girl was in jail and he's ... well I don't even know."

"Natch. Point to the lady, but I was referrin' to the boy. Talkin' to himself all the damn time."

She agreed. "What the hell's a chimichanga?"

He just chuckled finally. "No idea."

Sinthea was looking up at the moon. There were no stars visible because of all the light pollution of the Capitol. She kind of missed seeing the constellations. She and her gang used to find ones that looked like snakes. Picking up a pebble, she threw it high up into the air and waited several moments before it landed on the force field and exploded.

She looked at him strangely when he scanned around him and simply found a spot to lay down, his hands behind his head as he stared up into the darkness. Clearly in no rush to go back inside, and apparently doing the same thing she was. Looking for stars that simply wouldn't show themselves.

For her part, she was content to pace around, kicking the leftover pebbles back and forth. She also had no desire to go inside. She wondered what would happen if they stayed up here all night. Would someone come get them?

As if in response, Darcy Lewis stormed in through the opening elevator door. She saw Logan and Sin there together and shook her head.

"You two… you didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Logan growled out, giving the interloper a dirty look. She wasn't alluding that they … the way these people thought around here.

Sinthea went red-faced in anger and kicked a rock at her. "Don't even think about that, Darcy. I'm too good for this woodsman. We were just talking!" Logan snorted at her commentary.

"Talking." Darcy eyed them with suspicion, "Talking. Right. One of these days, either you or your dad is going to get me killed, Sinthea. And you, James Howlett, right?"

"Logan," he all but snarled as he sat up. "It's Logan. Thanks …. Marcy, right?"

"Whatever. Where are you supposed to be? Back with your teammates is the right answer. Come on, both of you. Back down to the rooms."

"Where am I supposed ... You want me to leave, sweetheart? Go scurry on off and see what kinda mood Creed's in. He said somethin' about lookin' for a new chew toy. You might just be his type if ya pull that stick outta yer ass," Logan growled out. "Hell, it'd do me a favour if ya did. Tell him I sent ya."

Sinthea burst out laughing at the look on Darcy's face. Darcy was completely mortified. She wouldn't stand for this. But for now, there was very little she could do.

"No one likes Creed, Logan," she admitted. "Some of us just steer clear of him. He tends to leave you alone. Pity you can't." Darcy smirked.

"What's a pity is how scared you all are of him."

Darcy ignored him. "Sinthea, you have half an hour, and then I'm sending your father up to get you."

"Send 'im up now" Logan growled out. The appearance of her escort had clearly irritated him. Her assumption that he and Sin had been doing anything but talk had flat pissed him off. "Why the hell not. Was wonderin' what kinda sound a giant jackass would make if he got tossed over."

Sinthea turned to Logan, "There's no point in provoking him. I can handle his anger, but Bruce might get caught in the middle trying to pull some stupid 'protecting me' shit. I should go."

She proceeded to throw a rock at Darcy. "I'll be right there." Logan looked to her escort and gave her a dismissive huff.

Sinthea picked up all the leftover pebbles and chucked them over the railing. She would find out later from Kate Bishop that the sound had kept the girl and Loki up half the night, the sound of the explosions being right above their rooms.

"Alright, see yah, Lumber-boy. Beat Creed up some more for me. We'll show our mentors' who's boss."

He just jerked his chin up at her in response, getting comfortable again. As Darcy glared at him, he flipped her off.

Sin wished she'd had a way to warn him when, on the stairs on the way down, they passed Creed heading up. She hadn't made friends with this boy, but it was nice to know someone shared her hatred of the mentors that she harboured. And she wanted to make sure he survived at least /to/ the Games. But he could handle himself. He was a big boy, so she didn't worry all that much. Even as the two of them could be heard barking at each other as she and Darcy stepped onto the elevator.

"What is _wrong_ with that kid?" Darcy grumbled, crossing her arms as the doors closed. "He's going to get himself killed before this thing even starts."

"Creed's a jackass. There's nothing wrong with Logan wanting to beat him up!" she insisted, walking up to the door of their suite.

Though she wasn't worried about Logan, she soon was worried slightly about herself as she walked inside her suite and saw the Red Skull ready to pounce.


	13. Facing Demons

**Facing Demons**

**Bruce Banner of District Six **

**Written by Miran Anders**

* * *

_"Thou hadst been better have been born a dog_  
_Than answer my waked wrath!"_

\- Shakespeare

* * *

The evaluations were ridiculous. They made no sense whatsoever, as far as Bruce Banner was concerned. He shook his head as he found the stairway and walked back upstairs, giving him a little alone time, a little exercise, and freeing him from the confines of the elevator. He stopped at his floor, trotted down three flights, and trotted back up. Actually having to breathe harder made him feel alive, and it seemed to him, at this point of his life, that any chance he got to feel alive was a good idea.

When he reached his floor again he paused in the hallway and stretched, trying to put the evaluation behind him. Five. He didn't know if he should be embarrassed or proud. The only things he made a point of showing off were his survival skills – finding food, making snares, and his favorite, fire starting. The rocks of rough flint, or chert, and the strong carbon steel knives let him make sparks easily, and there was plenty of tinder if you knew what you were looking for. In the evaluation room, it was disguised as pieces of rope that had to be unraveled to catch the sparks.

But still. Five. For a guy who was accustomed to acing every exam, it was a bit of a shock to the system. I suppose it's better to get used to it here, then to be surprised out in the arena.

Bruce stopped in the hallway outside one of the rooms set aside for the mentor conferences and frowned. He knew he was meeting with Schmidt after his district partner, but from the sound of it, it wasn't going very well for Sin.

"You'll never be worthy! You'll always be a failure, just like your whore of a mother!

He leaned forward to glance past the doorframe and saw Sin shaking off her father's grasp on her wrist. The look in her eyes was a huge amplification of when he had jokingly tapped her nose on the train, and his stomach twisted to see it. How dare he. Their escort, Darcy, stepped in and practically shooed Sin up the stairs. Then she turned to Schmidt and shook her head.

"Listen, I know she gets on your nerves, but maybe you-"

"She will listen to me. She will. She doesn't even deserve to be here. She thinks she can win these games? Do what I did? That presumptuous little, worthless b-"

And Bruce couldn't listen to the tone anymore. The anger. The hate. It sounded far too familiar, hit far too many memories. He didn't remember deciding to walk into the room, but found himself striding forward, fueled by reactions that had roots to his very core.

"Deserve?" Bruce stepped between Schmidt and Darcy, leaving the escort scrambling to control the situation. "Deserve? I'll tell you what she doesn't deserve." He stepped a little closer to the mentor, and they glared at each other. "She doesn't deserve to be putting her life on the line for these asinine 'games', and then have her so called father screaming in her face that she's not worth anything!"

Darcy cleared her throat quickly. "Bruce, I think –"

Banner lifted a hand quickly without looking away from the red, skull-like face. His palm stopped just short of her nose, as if it hit an invisible wall. Startled, Darcy backed up a step. There was something in his energy, his posture – it was unnerving. It was nothing like the sweet-natured young man she had grown accustomed to. The Skull seemed to notice it as well, and his eyes hardened.

"I should have killed her as soon as I saw her born."

"Oh? And maybe she should have broken into the fancy house you never let her live in, and killed you in your sleep. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Bruce felt his heart pounding harder as the color deepened in Schmidt's face.

"Who do I think I am? Who?" The man burst out in a vicious, maniacal laugh that ended in a growl. "I am the Red Skull. I am the only victor of Six. Who do you think I am, Boy?" He stepped closer, their chests only a hands breadth apart. "And who are you to question me?"

Darcy held her breath, waiting for Bruce to back down – but he didn't move. If anything, he looked more angry than before… but with a frightening, silent anger - as if he might explode any minute. She saw his fists clench and unclench, his jaw tighten – and she dashed to the wall and slapped a button.

Her sudden movement distracted the two and they both glanced at her, just before three Sentinels in full armor burst into the room, weapons at the ready. Glaring once more at each other, they stepped apart before the guards decided to use their energy weapons to knock them out.

_Or at least, knock me out._ Schmidt would probably get little more than a reprimand, given how other mentors like Creed were acting.

The two were breathing hard, as if they'd actually been physically fighting; their eyes still pinned on each other, neither backing down even though they moved farther apart. Darcy blew out a breath.

"Thanks, guys. Bruce, go up to your room."

His eyes narrowed. "I believe I have a conference with my mentor scheduled."

Hearing the sarcasm in his tone, Darcy shook her head. "Bruce-"

"But you heard him. He's the only victor of Six. Clearly he wants to keep it that way. I'm sure he wants to tell me how worthless my score was, and give me pointers on how to die quickly. Or maybe he wants to tell me how to kill his daughter."

"Bruce!"

The guards herded them farther from each other, and Bruce raised his hands in front of him. "Fine. I'll leave." He bit off one more comment before he looked away from Sin's father. "But that girl may surprise you, even if she has the misfortune of being your daughter."

Darcy stepped up to him, flanked by two of the guards. "Listen, Banner. I don't want to make this worse than it is, but you can't threaten the mentors. Trust me, it won't end well for you. And it could end really quickly, if you get my drift."

Bruce looked at her briefly, then shook his head and left the room. Two of the Sentinels walked behind him, following him out. The other hit a com link and reported all clear before heading out the way he came.

Darcy flopped down on a chair and took several deep breaths before speaking. "Well. That was exciting. What did you think you were going to do?"

The red face finally turned to stare at her. "I was doing my own evaluation."

"Of Sin?"

He jerked his head like he smelled something bad. "No. Of Banner." Schmidt spun to look in the direction Bruce had headed. "And I am pleased."


	14. The Other Widows

**(A/N) Hey guys, Nick here, making an unexpected update for Before You Kneel. I know you guys are all waiting for the next ITEYAK chapter, and it's coming, but I'm just gonna ask you to hold on right now. It's proving to be a tough one, and there's a lot I need to make sure I get right, because it leads into the sequel that I hope we'll do. However, to keep your appetites sated, here's a one-shot! **

**Oh, and thanks to sailorraven34 for their review, of course. Hope you enjoy this one!**

* * *

**The Other Widows**

**Natasha Romanoff of District Two**

**Written by GeekyChic123**

* * *

"_I cannot abide useless people." _

― Joss Whedon

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was fourteen years old now, and had finally become cold and ruthless enough to suit her bosses in The Room. A year ago she had not been a normal young girl, but…she had at least been _close_ to one. Now she was practically a trained killer, prepared to do whatever it took to win the Games.

No matter what the cost.

Last year the District Two tribute in the Games had been Natasha's old Red Room mentor, Dottie. Needless to say, Natasha had been invested in the outcome of those Games, more so than ever before. Everyone had been so confident that Dottie would win, that she would be the first to bring honour to the Red Room, the first to claim the prize every recruit for the room was working towards. Natasha had been so confident that her mentor would win, she had even been a bit jealous that another girl would snatch the title of Victor before she'd have the chance to.

Dottie had been one of final three when she was killed, on the fourteenth day of the Games. Natasha had seen it happen. Does it even need to be said that watching the person who had helped raise you, and taught you almost everything you knew in the world, get stabbed through the heart changes a person? Of _course_ it did. It certainly changed Natasha. From a young girl who knew how to fight, she became a weapon, who was ready to kill.

The day after Dottie died, Natasha had begged to be the tribute for the next year's Games, only to be informed she was too emotional, wouldn't be able to think clearly, and needed to distance herself from the death of her mentor. But they also told her that Dottie's death was a good thing – they believed that it would give Natasha enough cause to work hard enough to reach her full potential.

Well, they weren't wrong.

* * *

The Games had started four days ago, and Natasha was watching them with the rest of The Room, calmly taking notes and coolly observing as the girl from District Seven pushed a twelve-year-old from District Nine off a tall cliff. That was the theme for this year's arena – lots of cliffs and steep drops. Natasha couldn't help but wonder what idiot had designed it, as it made most of the deaths pretty dull and predictable. Honestly, every other death this year seemed to happen because someone tripped, or didn't know how to climb a mountain properly.

Their tribute from The Room had managed to hold her own when it came to climbing. They had a kind of rock climbing wall in their gym that was useful for training, and every so often the head trainers would wake up the girls in the middle of the night and make them climb to the top of the Red Room's headquarters.

The girl The Room had put forward this year was sixteen years old. Her name was Yelena Belova, and Natasha was sure she was not going to make it out of the Games alive. She made too many mistakes, and was far too sloppy about covering her trails. If Natasha was watching Yelena on TV, she was also always commenting on what she was doing wrong, and what she herself would do differently if it was her in the arena. At first her trainers had been impressed, they thought she was more invested in the Games this year, and was working hard to study the techniques showcased in the arena. Then, eventually, it just got annoying to hear Natasha comment on _every_ mistake that was made, and they started urging her to go train in the gym rather than watch another hour or two of the Games.

But now things were getting intense, and no one from The Room could be convinced to leave a TV now. Because though Yelena didn't know it, she was being followed by someone who wanted to kill her.

"Honestly did you even _train_ her? We have five-year-olds who could have done a better job at hiding their tracks. Are you _watching_ this?" Natasha demanded her trainers, who were all sitting in front of the TV, watching intently. None of them responded. "Honestly, she didn't even check if the bottom of her feet were wet, and now she has a lovely muddy track through all of the freaking dust in this arena. She might as well go stand in the middle of the arena and start yelling for someone to kill her."

Someone shushed her, but Natasha didn't care. She was still mad that it wasn't her in the arena. If it was, she certainly wouldn't be leaving a clear trail for the kid from District Five to find. Yelena was now sitting down against a tree, and the screen split to show that the District Five kid was closing in on her. She had no idea what was coming.

_Idiot._

The trainers were all starting to panic, and some of the smaller kids watching started to cry. They wouldn't last long here if they couldn't get used to watching a friend (or vague acquaintance) getting murdered.

Natasha continued to talk about what she would do in this situation, ignoring the pleas all around her for her to keep her mouth shut and let them watch in peace.

"Really, this girl is a moron. Do you think that _I_ would have just sat out in the open, to enjoy a little snack break? She should be climbing that tree, forming a camouflage disguise of some kind, and then taking out her dried fruit and water. And honestly, do you see the way she's guzzling it down? She's still not found a viable water source she could actually use in the last twenty-four hours, and she just drank half her supply," Natasha remarked snarkily, before throwing her hands in the air triumphantly, gesturing towards the screen. "Oh, wait, aaaaand now she realizes she's not alone. Yeah, hi Yelena, someone's been following you because you forgot how to cover your trail."

Natasha grimaced at this last part; it wasn't like she wanted to watch one of her comrades get killed. But she just couldn't stop talking, and she _certainly_ couldn't show if this event sparked any feelings in her. Any weakness. If she did, then when would she be picked to volunteer?

Lots of the little kids were freaking out now, and some of the trainers were groaning, watching the screen anxiously. Some seemed to think Yelena actually had a chance of survival, most were already confident that once again the Red Room would not have a victor. Natasha continued to provide needless commentary.

"Oh, okay. I see she still has that stick she carved to a point with a rock – I'm sure _that_ will help her. It's really too bad she disobeyed your orders and didn't go for the good supplies, she really _should_ have joined the Careers."

On screen Yelena was struggling to her feet, gripping the stick while searching for anything else that could be used as a weapon. The boy from Five walked towards her, almost at a leisurely pace. He clearly knew he would come out the better in this fight, as he twirled a sword in one hand, and reached for a knife with the other. Natasha couldn't shut up, but now she was talking to herself more than to anyone else.

"Wouldn't it be nice if she had a knife right now? Even a _fork_ would be more useful than that stick, gosh. Oh, look at that, he broke her stick. _Whoa!_ Ok, points for Yelena, I didn't think she was strong enough to break someone's nose with a punch. Not that that's going to help her a whole lot now."

Yelena was trying to win this fight with hand-to-hand combat. She must have known it was useless, even though she managed to kick the boy's sword away – he was still holding the knife, after all. As he attacked the girl evaded the slashes, then ducked just in time, the knife gouging the air where her head had just been. She looked absolutely terrified, and kept looking at her broken stick on the ground, as if it could still maybe help her. The knife danced in the light, and then red blood was flooding Yelena's arm.

"She should really try and stop that bleeding," Natasha murmured to herself, unable to look away from the fight. "That's going to make another easy to follow trail. _Ugh,_ she should have learned to cover her tracks. That's what got her in this situation in the first place. And now – okay, he just remembered that he has a big knife."

As the larger knife appeared in the boy's hand, Yelena turned pale, and stumbled back, clutching at her wounded arm. For a second it looked like she was going to stand and fight for her life. Then she turned and started running.

Natasha's stomach tightened, and for a second she felt ill as she watched. She knew what was going to happen next. She had seen the District Five boy hit harder targets than this – his knife was going to find its mark. Sure enough, the metal shone as it sliced through the air, and buried itself in Yelena's back. The girl didn't make a noise as she fell. Not a second after she hit the dirt, a cannon went off. Once again it looked like a Red Room recruit was not going to win the Games.

No one was paying attention to Natasha now, everyone was kind of freaking out. Little kids were screaming, a few were crying, and trainers were yelling at them to toughen up, telling them a failed comrade was not worth their tears. On screen the boy from District Five was searching Yelena's pockets for anything that might be useful – he probably hoped to come away from this with more than a half empty water bottle and the broken spear the girl had made. Natasha walked towards a group of angry trainers who were shouting, arguing, and were clearly more than a bit upset. They all stopped talking when she walked up, probably so she wouldn't hear anything confidential or important.

She smiled sweetly. "Wow, Yelena was just an excellent choice. Really, well done. May I suggest that the _next_ time you pick a tribute to volunteer for the Games, you choose someone who can actually _survive?_"

Natasha turned and started to walk away, then paused and looked back. "Of course by 'a tribute', I mean _me_. Because if you put me in that arena, I can promise you that I'm going to come out alive."

_Shame Yelena won't._


	15. Stripes and Solids

**(A/N): Hello, all! We're back with a look into our tributes' lives back before they got into the arena and the cannons started sounding. This chapter features Logan and Peter Parker, written as always by the ever-talented Canucklehead Cowgirl and abrokencastiel.  
**

**Thanks to sailorraven34 for the review! We hope you enjoy this one as well.**

* * *

**Stripes and Solids**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl &amp; abrokencastiel**

* * *

_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed._

\- Carl Jung

* * *

Logan had made a bit of a habit of slipping up to the roof for some fresh air to get a break from Creed. It was usually well after hours, when most if not all of the other tributes were already in bed. But tonight, when he tried to go up, three mentors from the Career districts were blocking the path. They barely gave him an explanation, though it didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.

"Sorry. Roof's occupied," one of them said, though he couldn't be bothered remembering all their names. Glowering at the three of them, he stepped back into the elevator and crossed his arms as he leaned against the back wall, just glaring at them until the doors were closed.

Where's a guy to go in a mood like that? If he headed back to the suite, Creed would treat him to more of his sage wisdom, or try to discuss with him the most entertaining means of killing people.

No, that wasn't gonna cut it. Grudgingly, he decided to try the common area on the first floor. The last time he was down there, it was watching while most of the brainiacs played chess. Some of the others watched television or played silly games. None of it was something that really caught his attention.

The few times he'd been down there, he'd watched people. He wondered if maybe that was a good idea. He could see how these kids acted when the Careers weren't an issue.

He grabbed something to drink and found a quiet corner to keep to himself, though it wasn't exactly quiet in there to begin with. The television was blaring, and the jokester, Parker, was screwin' around at the chess boards.

Two girls were busy watching more coverage on the Games, so unfortunately for Logan, that made the most interesting thing in the room … Parker.

He scrunched his eyebrows together as he watched the kid move the pieces around. White knight to F3. Black knight to F6. Pawns to C4 and G3. Yeah, that was boring already. He took a drink and leaned his head back as Parker continued his 'game' while he stared at the ceiling. It was still better than being in the suite listening to Creed tell him the best way to play cat's cradle with someone's guts.

"Checkmate." Parker tipped over the white king and let it roll across the board. "I lose." The kid stretched his hands over his head and leaned back, tipping the chair back onto two legs. He kept leaning further back until Logan was sure he'd go toppling backward. At least that would be something to watch.

Their eyes met, and Peter immediately broke into a wide smile. Logan raised an eyebrow in response, and the kid seemed to take that as an open invitation. The chair slammed back to the floor, and the younger teen headed toward Logan's corner.

Until Short-Dark-and-Grumpy walked in the room, it'd just been Peter, Anna, and Raven. Without his usual chess partners, there was little for Peter to do to keep his mind busy, and the girls weren't a good distraction, either. Despite sharing the couch, the girl with the blue tattoos was maintaining her usual silence, and his own partner appeared to be in one of her "I'll kill ya if ya talk to me" moods. If the past few days had taught him anything, it was to leave her alone when she was like that. Logan, on the other hand, looked much more approachable, even with that scowl on his face.

"So, what brings you to this happening place so late at night?" Peter slid into an unoccupied armchair.

"Roof's occupied."

"Right, not-so-secret Career meeting." Peter nodded. "Heard them talking about it at training." Logan's frown deepened.

"So, this is where the younger crowd spends their time," Logan mused. "Not exactly excitin'."

"You should see it when everyone's here. It's a flat out party." Peter started gesturing around the room. "Usually Tony and Bruce are decking it out at the chess table, T'Challa's sharing great words of wisdom, and Wade's making everyone equally uncomfortable."

"Don't sound like much of a party to me." Logan paused before sizing him up. "You do know we're not here to make friends, right?" he growled out as he leaned forward, eyes locked onto the younger, more exuberant teen.

"You're beginning to sound like Norman. He's a barrel of laughs, too." He frowned and took on a deeper voice in an impression of his mentor. "Everyone's out to get you. There's no such thing as friends. Stop playing with your food." Peter shrugged. "Way I see it, I might as well enjoy myself. I mean, I'm not delusional about how this is going to end. You've seen the other tributes. Hell, look at you." He narrowed his eyes as he considered the buff teen. "Seriously, how old are you? There's no way someone close to my age can have that much of a five o'clock shadow."

Logan had to smirk at his commentary. "Sounds like Norman's tryin' to keep you alive." Knowing that the kid had a point, though, he tried to relax a hair, leaning back into his chair. "To answer your question, I'm eighteen, by the way, and I can't help the beard. Runs in the family, I guess. Sure as hell wasn't by choice." He looked the teen over, assessing him a little closer. "What about you? You don't look much older than Kurt. Doubt yer my age." He thought about how well the two boys had seemed to get along …. and Kate. She was another ray of sunshine trying to make jokes to cover their nerves.

"Fifteen. But if anyone asks, I'm a tall twelve."

"That's real cute. Everything a joke to you, kid?" Logan was glaring at him a little bit now, unsure if that was a jab at his height. If it was, it had to be one of the more subtle commentaries he'd ever heard.

"Not everything." He didn't expand, earning another raised eyebrow. Peter's own eyebrows knit together. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The eyebrow thing. It seems like a great intimidation technique." He made a sad attempt at copying the older teen. After a few moments of intense concentration, he gave up and physically pushed one eyebrow up with his finger. "Am I scarin' ya?" he said, trying to imitate Logan's accent.

Logan scowled, unsure of what the hell to make of the guy, but he was starting to get under his skin. Rather than even respond verbally, he just shook his head, huffed, and stood up before he made his way to the pool table across the room. Peter just watched him go …

"Hey, we were having a conversation. Did I scare you off? Did that actually work?" Peter called out, following the older teen and standing behind him as Logan set up the rack, peeking over his shoulder with an impatient sigh.

"Ya mind? A little breathin' room'd be nice," Logan growled out, turning part way to look at the taller, skinny teen over his shoulder. Peter just raised his hands in front of himself and took two steps back as Logan again tried to ignore him, wondering why the hell he'd talked to him in the first place. He chalked the cue and made the break, sinking in three balls before he started stalking around the table.

The premise of it seemed simple enough to Peter. Basic geometry in action.

"Mind if I join you?" Peter asked, and Logan smirked and dipped his head toward him in agreement.

"Be my guest."

It took Logan about two sentences to give Peter the basic rules. "I got stripes, you shoot for the solids. Don't sink a stripe, the eight or the cue." Peter took just a moment as he looked over the table and nodded once.

"Alright. Got it." On Peter's turn, he got three in a row right out of the gate. Logan just watched, sure he'd been snookered.

"Ya didn't say you knew how to play, Parker," Logan growled out.

"I don't … it's just geometry .. angles, a little applied physics …" Peter drifted off at the look on Logan's face - a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

_Where the hell did he come up with that?_ Logan thought to himself. Rather than try too hard to figure it out, Logan took his shots, sinking two before missing. At the end of his turn, he just stood back and watched as Peter muttered to himself, apparently figuring out the angles. When Parker sunk two more, Logan had to just shake his head. Kid was winning.

Peter carefully positioned the cue to hit the orange ball in the corner pocket. It was going to be a little tricky to avoid knocking in one of Logan's stripes along with it. A loud scream from the television distracted him, and he missed the shot. "Damn," he muttered, frowning in the direction of the girls. Footage from last year's game was playing while Taneleer described the winner's strategy. "Little loud, don't you think?" A glare from Anna, and he put his hands up in defense. "Or not. I love the sound of screaming kids."

Logan shook his head as he lined up his shot. "You really gonna let her get to you that easy?" the striped ball slid into the corner pocket, and he lined up the next shot. "If you woulda just ignored her, you'd have me beat by now." Another stripe down. Peter just watched him for a moment, clutching his cue in front of him with both hands. With an easy bank, Logan sank the last stripe and turned to look at the young man. "Eight ball, center pocket." He took his time and finished his last shot, easily sinking the eight ball. He glanced at Peter for a moment before just walking the table and sinking the last of the solids too … just to clear them.

"You gotta focus more, kid. You're all over the place. Jokes one minute, quakin' in yer boots the next just cuz some broad gives ya a dirty look." Anna huffed out and glared hard at Logan, but he didn't even bother looking up at her. "Get over yourself, darlin'. I've seen kittens more intimidatin' than that," he barked toward her before tipping his head to the table.

"You wanna break this time?" Logan offered. Peter straightened up quickly, re-chalking his cue and nodding. He looked a little afraid to say no as Logan leaned his cue against the wall and started setting up for another game, totally ignoring the death glares he was getting from the two girls at the couch.

Peter watched silently, mulling over Logan's words. He had a point. The lax attitude and joking approach wasn't working as well as he'd hoped, but it was better than the alternative. Logan finished setting up and nodded for Peter to take his shot. A solid spun into a corner pocket from the break, and he systematically knocked in three more before scratching.

"See? Once ya stop runnin' your mouth and concentrate, ya can get something done." Logan placed the cue ball and knocked in his first stripe.

Peter laughed and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Of course, now that you've told me the secret, I'm definitely gonna win."

"I suppose anything can happen." Logan sunk two more before missing.

"In fact, I bet I can do it this turn," Peter said as he considered the table. He grinned impishly at the older boy. "Wanna make this interesting?"

Logan just considered him a moment, running his hand across the stubble on his chin. "Whatcha got in mind?"

"You have to wear your parade outfit to the private assessments."

"Not a chance."

"Aw, come on. I'll wear mine if I lose."

"Nope. Don't think it's allowed anyway. You're gonna have to think of somethin' else."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "No fun." He thought for a moment longer. "Any chance you could give me a shout out during your interview? A thanks to the kid from Eight who got you where you are today?" The look on Logan's face made it clear it wasn't going to happen. "Alright, final offer. I sink all these, and you give me a one-time free pass in the arena if we ever end up in the same place. I'm not saying you have to help me or anything, but if we happen to end up in the same dark alley, we just go our separate ways. No questions asked."

"As long as you ain't lookin' for a way to kill me at the time, alright. But …" Logan paused as Peter got ready to make his shot. "What do I get if you don't sink 'em all?"

"I give you a footrub and tell you a bedtime story." Peter's shoulders slumped when Logan only stared at him with one raised eyebrow. "Not even a smirk. Seriously, dude, do you ever smile? Like really smile?" He was beginning to worry for the older boy's well-being. It couldn't be healthy to look that angry all the time.

"How 'bout we just leave it open. You just owe me a favor. Figure it out later - whatever it is won't cost you your life, though," Logan offered.

Peter pointed the cue at Logan. "That I can agree to." He reset to line up his shot. "Besides." The first ball went in, and the cue ball stopped right where Peter intended for the next shot. He looked at Logan with a wide grin. "I'm definitely going to win."

Logan could only watch in silent amusement as Peter quickly sunk every ball. There was no hesitation as each shot was made. It was getting harder to think the kid had never played pool before. It would be much easier to believe he'd just been suckered.

"Eight ball, left corner pocket." Peter smiled widely as the ball disappeared down the hole. "And that, my friend, is game."

To Peter's great surprise, Logan was smiling the tiniest bit at him when he looked up at the gruff tribute. "So that's what happens when you actually get motivated. Nice game, kid. If this thing was a pool tournament, you'd shark all of us."

He was so amused at how thoroughly he'd been beat, there was nothing to do but just chuckle to himself about it. "You're alright, Parker. Between you an' me, I'd really rather not be the one that does ya in. Hope it don't come to that."

"Oh my God, he laughs. That's a bigger win than my actual win." Peter put his cue away and playfully punched Logan in the shoulder. "Hopefully I won't run into you. Not that I wouldn't love another chance to show you up."

"Yeah, well, we won't be playin' pool next time. You got a pass. Make it count."

Peter nodded curtly, his face serious for once. "I will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's bedtime for Anna." His district partner had fallen asleep curled in on herself. "Hey, let's get you to bed." She roused slowly, mumbling something and trying to turn back into the comfort of the couch. "Nope. Upstairs. Come on, don't make me carry you." Peter pulled her up and forced her to walk with him toward the elevator. "Thanks for the game, Logan. Good luck tomorrow."

Logan just nodded, watching the two of them stumble their way off, noticing after a few moments that the other girl ... Raven ... was watching him. He turned his head to return the stare only for her to quickly look away with a smirk on her face. He didn't like that girl. Too damn quiet. Even for him. Always slinking around.

He took a look at the clock and realized that he had to get moving. It was later than he thought. Tomorrow promised to be a long one. Assessments.

And one step closer to murder and mayhem.


	16. Aww, Fence, No

**(A/N): We're hoping to get the main fic back going again very soon, we promise! In the meantime, here's some cuteness and happiness from back before our tributes were brought to the Capitol to face the danger they're currently in. This one's following the story of Kate Bishop, written as always by robbiepoo2341. **

**As always, thank you to sailorraven34 for the review. We hope you continue to enjoy these amazing characters and the stories they have to tell :)**

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**Aww, Fence, No**

**Kate Bishop of District 12**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

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_There are three kinds of [wo]men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves._

\- Will Rogers

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"No way."

"Come on, you big baby. It's not that high."

"Yes. Yes, it is that high. No way. Nu-uh."

America crossed both arms and gave Kate her raised-eyebrow look. "Promise I won't get you killed, okay? This is me you're talking to here."

Kate frowned. "That's not actually all that comforting, thanks."

Kate looked up at the tree branch. It seemed like it might _maybe _be close enough to the ground that Kate could possibly catch it and haul herself over. Assuming she didn't accidentally catch the fence. Which would be bad.

"There's _got_ to be another way past the fence."

"I only got one way out there, and it's my way. You can't come, princess."

Kate glared at America and chewed her lower lip. "And I gotta go over?"

"You said you want to help."

"Yeah, but,,,," Kate sighed and let the protest die unspoken. No point arguing with America; she should have learned that by now.

America's smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Yeah, she definitely knew she'd won. Not even fair. How _did _Kate get stuck with America as a best friend?

Kate had bad taste. That was the only explanation for how she kept getting herself into dangerous situations like this. Bad taste and an overactive addiction to adrenaline.

"If you get me killed, I swear I'll crawl back from the grave and haunt you," Kate said.

America giggled. "Wouldn't be half bad. Then I wouldn't be too sad about losing you."

"You're the worst."

America just grinned and crouched down, putting her hands together to provide Kate with a step up.

Kate sighed. Well, she _had _said that she wanted to help out America and her little friends with their setup. She'd _volunteered _to help hunt, for crying out loud. What was _wrong _with her?

Kate couldn't really regret her life choices, though, when she was in the middle of hurtling towards a tree and concentrating on not letting her fingers slip.

She managed to just grab on with almost the tips of her nails. It was pure terror and adrenaline that got her up into the tree at that point. She could just hear the sizzling of the electricity underneath her.

She blew out her breath and went to pull her legs up and over when something went very, very wrong.

She must have put her foot in some sap or something else slippery or sticky. Whatever it was, it definitely didn't provide the grip she thought she'd be able to get on the rough bark of the tree, and she went toppling sideways.

A blur. The sizzling sound. Silver — that was the fence — and green — that was the forest — rushed together, and she was only aware of the fact that she'd just managed to wedge her other foot, the one that wasn't slipping, into something solid enough to hold her before she felt her head hit the trunk, hard.

She bounced, and as she swung out, she saw the fence.

"AUGH!" Yep, that was definitely a heroic sound coming out of her mouth. She was _so _good at this.

Thankfully, she managed to backpedal enough that she didn't get electrocuted, but she could actually smell the burnt air — she was that close.

"Aww, fence, no," she whispered, glaring at the monstrosity in front of her. Then, for some reason, she thought, _At least I'm on the other side of it now._

America had seen Kate fall — which was bad enough — but now she was in rescue mode. "Stay right there!" America shouted, holding up both hands. "I'll come get you!"

"Where else am I supposed to go?" Kate called back to her friend. She would have twisted so she could get a better look at how tangled up she'd managed to get herself — and maybe get untangled — but she was so close to the fence that she didn't really have much choice but to dangle there.

"Bet you anything a Sentinel comes by right now," Kate said, out loud, because she was thinking it, and she might as well put it out there.

Nothing happened.

"Not sure if that makes me feel any better," Kate grumbled. She would have crossed her arms, but the fence was too close.

She stared at the fence. Heard it sizzle. Stared some more.

The forest was really, really quiet.

"America?" Kate called out. She was starting to wonder if America had gotten herself stuck, too. Or maybe got herself caught.

What if Kate got stranded out there? What if something else found her while she was hanging upside down like that? A wolf or something?

What if Kate passed out from all the blood rushing to her head and no one ever found her?

That would be the stupidest way to die _ever_, Kate decided, because hanging upside down by your own foot was just ridiculous.

"Okay, fence," Kate said out loud, because the longer the silence went on, the more "what if"s her brain came up with, and that was actually pretty much the worst thing ever. "It looks like you and me are at what we call an impasse."

The fence just hummed back at her.

"Tell you what," Kate said, pulling her arms back and away from the fence slowly — _very _slowly, because she didn't want to accidentally rock herself again and go careening into the electricity — trying to feel for the trunk. "You just stop being electric and dangerous, and I'll promise not to spit on you."

The fence hummed.

"Tough customer, huh?" Kate said, making a face. "Fine. I can play that game, too."

As it turned out, she couldn't actually play that game. Being silent was hard, especially when she could see spots from all the blood rushing to her head. Talking was a good way to remind herself that she was, in fact, conscious.

"Okay," she said, louder this time, "at this point, I'd even be willing to get caught by some Sentinels. I'm sure Daddy could come up with some excuse to get out of public embarrassment."

She almost immediately regretted saying that, though, because she felt something grab hold of her foot, and in a sudden panic, she blurted out, "I was just kidding!" She would have struggled, but she was still too close to the fence for comfort.

"Chill out, Princess," said a wonderfully familiar voice as America lifted Kate up by her foot and dropped her down, unceremoniously, onto the nearest tree branch.

Kate saw purple for a really long time. Not that she was complaining — purple was her favorite color — but it took a while for her head to adjust to being the right way up.

When she finally started to see green, like she was supposed to, considering she was in a forest, she grinned. "Thanks for the rescue."

"Told you I wouldn't get you killed," America grinned. She waited for Kate to get her bearings before she tilted her head, grinned, and said, "You ready? There's a clearing out a mile that way where I saw a deer the other day."

Kate could see mostly normally now, with just the occasional purple spots, and she lowered herself gently to the ground, practically hugging the tree all the way down. Only once her feet hit the solid forest floor did she say, "Okay, yeah, let's go."

It was the first of many trips — and Kate had to admit, it wasn't a great way to start out her whole heroic adventure thing.


	17. Simple Delicacies

**(A/N): Here's another amazing collaborative one-shot by our writers! This one features Sinthea Schmidt and Peter Parker, written of course by the talented Silmarilz1701 and abrokencastiel!**

**Thank you to I-OfTheHawk and sailorraven34 for their reviews. Your support means a lot to us!**

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**Simple Delicacies**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six and Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by Silmarilz1701 and abrokencastiel**

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_"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."_

\- J.R.R. Tolkien

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She was pissed. Granted, her escort and mentor were equally pissed with her, but Sinthea Schmidt didn't want to acknowledge this.

Sin took the elevator down to the large cafeteria dining area that the kids used for lunches. To her surprise, though it was after dinner time, the place was open, and she went inside. There were bowls of various snack foods out for the kids to chew on, and she wondered what each of them was.

A bowl of red-braided candies caught her eyes, and she grabbed a piece. The rope limply bent in her hand as she examined it. It was slightly gummy. She took an experimental bite, pulling at it until a piece snapped off. It tasted like a sweet cherry, or something like that. She continued to chew on it as she moved to other bowls.

The door to the cafeteria opened, and the boy from Eight entered. He half-smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Sin nodded back and continued perusing the food. Peter was his name, if she remembered correctly. The boy who spent the majority of training in the rafters. Honestly, how did he expect to be prepared when he did nothing but watch from above? Plus, he didn't seem to take anything seriously.

The boy was taking on the other side of the table, munching on some chips while Sin tried every colour of some small candies.

"So what brings you down here?" he asked after a few silent moments. His dark eyes peered at her while he picked through a bowl of triangle chips that left orange dust around his mouth.

Sinthea tried to ignore him, pretending not to hear his question. But he pressed her again.

"Hello?" he asked.

"I really don't feel like talking about it." She glared at him.

Sinthea was angry at everything right now. She was angry with her mentor and father, Johann Schmidt, because all he did was tear her down and build Bruce Banner up. She was mad at her escort, Darcy Lewis, because she was a total smartass. And she was angry with Dazzler, her stylist, for, well, for existing.

Why was she angry? She'd just had a meeting with her team about getting sponsors, and all her damn father could say was how useless Sin was, how pointless it would be to find her sponsors. Was she not worth _anything_?

Anything at _all_?

She moved on to the next bowl of food items. These were little chewy, cube-like candies. She decided her favourite were the pinks. As she ate another one, she realized Peter was still there, most likely waiting for an answer.

She sighed. "What about you? Why are _you_ here? Don't you have somewhere _better _to be?"

Peter shrugged and wiped away the cheese surrounding his mouth. "Norman's in one of his moods, Anna tends to keep to herself, and my chess buddies are playing each other. So, no, Miss Skull, I have nothing better to do than pester you with deep, meaningful questions." He leaned across the table toward her, his face serious. "What is the best colour candy in that bowl?"

She stared at him. He was an odd one, Peter was. He had a lot of confidence for a skinny, untrained teenager.

"Don't call me 'Miss Skull'. I'm Sin." She paused. "Pink. Pink is the best. What about those chips? They any good?"

"Well, Sin, it's like cheese heaven." He moved the bowl so she could reach easier, smiling at her expression as she took a bite. "Great stuff, right?"

She shrugged, not willing to give Peter much credit, but she did take a few more before he could move the bowl away.

"Now to see if you're as truthful as I am." Peter popped a pink candy in his mouth and chewed slowly, a thoughtful frown on his face. Finally, he nodded and smiled. "You're right. Pink is delicious. I guess I can continue to trust your judgement."

"Tried these yet?" Sin asked him, pointing at a set of mini chocolate bunnies.

She herself had not and reached into the basket to grab one. She took a bite of the chocolate figure and closed her eyes. It was delicious. For a moment, she closed her eyes and forgot about her mentor father, instead focusing on her happier memories of when she tasted a cupcake with Crossbones back home in Six. It had tasted like a cheap version of the chocolate bunny she was having now.

"Chocolate is officially the best thing ever. My aunt made cookies with chocolate chunks in them. So good." He bit off the ear of one bunny and sighed. "Of course, the chocolate wasn't this delicious. We can't really afford it, so she could only use what I swiped from the bakery." He froze mid-bite, realizing what he said. "I mean, I didn't steal that often. Just special occasions, and only the extra bits that they wouldn't use anyway." A nervous hand ran over the back of his neck. "I haven't done it in a while."

Sinthea smirked. "Didn't take you for the thief-type, Spider-boy. Not bad."

Sinthea moved down the line to the next bowl of food. It was a strange bowl of yellowy white puff balls. The label read **Buttered Popcorn**. She wondered what it tasted like. Taking a handful of the stuff, she took a single bite and chewed it carefully. It was delicious.

"Do you have nicknames for everyone?" Peter asked with a half-smile, sticking his own hand into the popcorn bowl.

Sin shrugged. "Not everyone. Mostly just some of the guys. I call Logan 'Lumber-boy' and Bruce 'School-boy,' but that's about it. You're 'Spider-boy' because you spent all that time up in the rafters just like a spider during training."

"Hey, I learn a lot by watching." Peter popped a few pieces in his mouth, and his eyes widened. "Oh. My. Gosh. This is delicious. No, this is more than delicious. This is ... I don't know. On the level of chocolate fantastic." He ate a few more and closed his eyes in happiness.

"It's all right, but not chocolate."

"Don't lie now; lying is a sin ... Sin." Peter laughed at his own words.

"Real original." She rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, didn't even mean to do that." Peter grinned and tossed a piece of popcorn into the air that he caught in his mouth. Another two in the air, and he caught them both easily.

Sin scoffed, unimpressed. She threw her own up in the air and caught it with ease. Then, Sinthea decided to try something completely unorthodox. Why not put together chocolate and this new popcorn stuff? She grabbed a single piece of chocolate and a single piece of popcorn before placing them together hesitantly in her mouth.

"_Mmmmmmm_." She grinned.

Peter followed suit and closed his eyes at the sweet and salty taste. "You are a genius. Seriously."

"I know." She mixed a handful together and continued munching.

"Think fast!"

A piece of popcorn hit her forehead, and she glared across the table. "What was that?"

"Flying popcorn." He threw another piece, and this time, she caught it.

"Stop throwing food at me."

"Think of it as training! If you can dodge the snack, you can dodge an arrow." This time, a combination of flying popcorn and chocolate.

Sinthea actually found herself about to laugh. _What an odd feeling,_ she thought. She did not allow herself to laugh, but she did crack a smile. Picking up some bear-shaped gummies, she threw them at Peter as she ducked under a table.

As nothing happened for several moments, she allowed herself to peek above the table. She figured he'd left, leaving her looking like an idiot. But she was met with a barrage of popcorn, chocolate, and gummy worms. She was slightly relieved that he hadn't left but equally annoyed that he had thrown stuff at her.

"I'm taking this as a declaration of war!" Peter grabbed an entire bowl of gummies and disappeared back behind the table.

Sinthea narrowed her eyes. She too grabbed a bowl of goodies from atop the table and carefully made her way, always hidden, down the line of tables towards a better vantage point. She looked at the bowl she had grabbed. They were the square chewies, and she popped a pink one in her mouth. Those were for eating, not throwing.

"You are _so_ on."

She took a yellow chew and pelted it at Peter's face as he popped up into view. It hit him square on the nose. Sin smirked.

"Gah!" Peter fell back. "Deadly aim." He remained hidden for few seconds, and Sin prepared another chew as she peered over the table.

"I _am _the daughter of the Red Skull." Sinthea smirked.

Peter suddenly popped up in a different spot, a long gummy worm twirling through the air toward her face.

It hit her smack in the forehead. Sinthea glared at Peter but said, "Touché."

Suddenly, the doors opened and Logan walked in. He looked at the two other teenagers, grabbed a piece of popcorn, and left the room, shaking his head.

Sinthea nearly laughed. But in the time she'd lifted her head up, Peter had hit her yet again. She quickly turned and sent three chews right in his direction.

He managed to dodge one, but the other two got him in the forehead. "I'm beginning to feel like you have the better ammo."

"Well, girls tend to know how to pick their poison better than men," she told him before doing a forward roll towards the row of water bottles. She was getting thirsty!

An array of snack food rained down after her, but none hit their mark. "Hold on a minute!" Peter ordered as he vaulted over the table to get a hold of some chocolate bunnies. He bit off the head of one, sending the decapitated bunny flying in his opponent's direction.

"Ey! No calling timeouts! Especially not when you use it to attack!" Sin glared at him.

"All's fair in war." Peter grinned at her.

Staring at her water bottle, she got an idea. Sinthea rolled under the table, popping up near Peter, and drenched him.

"Cold, cold, cold." Peter jumped away, shaking his head and flinging water everywhere. He put his hands up and blinked away the drops on his eyelashes. "Alright, I surrender. You've found my weakness. Cold water."

She was nervous about going up in the open. Sinthea got as far away from Peter as she could before standing up.

"You look like a wet puppy," she said with her eyebrows raised.

"Does this make me Puppy-boy now?"

"You would rather be a puppy than a spider? Spiders are cooler." Sinthea was quite surprised.

Peter laughed. "I guess you're right. Spiders are much more intimidating. Though Gwen would probably like me be being a cute puppy better. She's a friend," Peter explained.

_Friends._ Sinthea lamented sometimes that she'd only ever had one friend. But she wouldn't trade those years with Crossbones for anything.

"Well, you would've fit right into one of District Six's gangs with a name like the Spider or something. But your skills, or lack thereof, might've ruined that." She smirked at him.

"Hey, I'm decent at some things." Peter scoffed. He picked up another gummy worm and twirled it. "I am an accomplished gummy tosser. A couple of these bad boys, and I'm deadly."

Sinthea snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Come on. Sin and Spider. You gotta say it has a ring to it."

"I don't think so."

Peter put a hand to his heart and squeezed his eyes shut. "That hurt almost as much as your well-aimed candy." His hair was starting to dry and stuck out at stiff, odd angles from his head instead of the usual, fluffy look.

Sinthea looked at him and smiled slightly, mostly to herself. This Parker kid reminded her of young Crossbones. A daredevil. But Peter was slightly more obnoxious. Nevertheless, she had to give him credit for being way more personable than she could ever be.

"You're still a loser, Spider-boy," was all Sinthea said, tossing her hair to the side as she went to grab one of the few remaining gummy worms and stuck it in her mouth.

"From you, I'll take that as a complement."

She snorted. "Suit yourself."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm in need of a change from the waterworks." He motioned vaguely to his still soaked shirt.

"You're welcome." She smiled in satisfaction. "See you around, Spider-boy. Maybe in the common area tomorrow?"

"Well, I'll have to clear my schedule." Peter grinned. "I'm in high demand."

"Oh, I just _assumed_ you'd be there playing your nerd game. Chess? That's what you call it?" Sinthea sniffed in contempt.

Peter laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Unless the other nerds beat me there. It's quite a race. "

She laughed. A real, genuine laugh. Something that she hadn't done in a very, very long time.

"I'll see you around, Parker. Hopefully not in the arena." Sinthea lifted her hand in farewell and turned to leave. She was getting in the elevator when a cry from Peter stopped her.

"Hold up!" He slid into the elevator before the doors closed, holding two big bowls. "They tend to change the snacks every night, and who knows if we'll get this deliciousness again." He handed one to her that was a combination of chocolate, popcorn, and pink chews.

She smiled down at the bowl. She'd had more fun tonight than she'd had in a long time. Of course, that wasn't saying much, because her life was a whirlwind of crappiness, but nonetheless, it had been a nice escape from her father's grasp in the Capitol.

"Thanks." She nodded to him, then winked. "Stay dry."

"Aw, so sweet." Peter smiled back.

Rolling her eyes, she got off on her floor and waved to him.

The angry shout of "Sinthea!" could be heard coming from the suite. No doubt it was her father getting ready to chastise her once more. She didn't shrink from the sound but turned to look in determination back at Peter.

"You gonna be okay?"

She smiled a small smile and nodded. She would be fine.


	18. Child's Play

**(A/N): Hello again! While we're all eagerly anticipating the next round of the Games over at _In The End You Always Kneel_, we thought you all might appreciate some of our tributes before they were stuck in the arena. So we present to you a Logan one-shot, written as always by the incomparable Canucklehead Cowgirl. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed; we hope you continue to love these beautiful characters and the stories they have to tell. We sure do.**

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**Child's Play**

**James 'Logan' Howlett of District Seven**

**by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

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_Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does._ ~William James

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"C'mon, wake up – get moving or I'm going to have to arrest you. Come ON, Logan, move it," Mac urged. Mac was the only peacekeeper in Seven that had any shred of decency in him, and he could see that Logan wasn't your typical cutter. Logan groaned as he stretched worn, achy muscles. He cracked an eye open and swallowed hard. Cotton mouth. His jaw hurt.

_Right. Got drunk. Bar fight, _he thought to himself.

"You can't sleep on the street, Logan," Mac told him as he helped him to his feet. The sun was already high in the sky, emphasizing how late it had gotten – nearly eleven, from the look of what was left of the shadows between buildings.

"Wasn't sleepin'," Logan argued. "I was passed out." Mac gave him a look as he brushed the dirt off his … friend?

"I was _trying_ to be tactful," Mac replied. "You know we're supposed to bring you in if we see you doing anything wrong, and public drunkenness qualifies. You look like hell." Logan nodded. Mac had told him as much just about every time he found him in some kind of predicament.

Three times last month breaking up bar room brawls. Once when he somehow managed to get tangled up with a guy three times his size that was, according to other witnesses, beating on his wife. He probably would have gotten away with that due to circumstances, though. Especially with the witnesses saying he was protecting the woman. And finally, just last night, when he rushed in to break up the cage fight that half the lumber crew had money down on already.

He'd ended up in the alley after that. Well, after that and half a bottle of whiskey. It was unusual for Logan to get that blitzed, but losing a month's worth of wages on an entry fee then having the lowlife skip out at the first sign of trouble had the bar working double time to keep the entrants from tearing the place apart. Everyone that had gone in to fight ended up getting shit-faced drunk … and fighting. Just without the cash payout.

Logan was one of the few that seemed to have the damn fool sense to go outside to pass out, though. Better than half a dozen men were arrested in the bar not twenty minutes before Mac found him – and he was supposed to be looking for anyone else to arrest.

"Get movin' before the head Sentinel comes by. I can't keep covering for you, Logan," Mac said as he handed him his cowboy hat. "You're too young to be wrapped up in this kind of garbage. You shouldn't even be drinking like this."

"I toldja you don't have to watch out for me, Mac," Logan grumbled as he started to stumble his way toward the back of the alley. Mac watched him go for a few moments before thinking about getting back to work. He'd have his ass handed to him if he got caught helping Logan again.

"You know, I'm trying to do the right thing here, Logan. Would you rather I took you in? It would sure as hell make my life easier," Mac said with some heat to his words, his hands open. Logan stopped, and his head dropped before he turned to face him again.

"No. But like I said, if it's that much a pain in yer ass, just take me in," Logan replied. Mac sighed and shook his head before he told him to hurry back to camp and lay low for a change.

At the end of the alley, Logan waited in the weak shadows for a pair of Sentinels to pass – they had Puck in cuffs and were hauling him down to the square, no doubt.

He looked down at the state of himself and knew he was likely in trouble if he got spotted. Filthy blue jeans soaked in places with booze, beer, and blood. There was no arguing that he hadn't been one that was fighting in the bar that night.

If he could make it to the logging road, none of the Sentinels would bother stopping him. He clenched his jaw and tried to move as quickly as he could from one alley to the next, ducking into the shadows when he came across other pairs of Sentinels. He was nearly to the logging road headed out of town when he felt a tug on his pants leg.

He turned his head, his best scowl on his face, to find a blonde-haired little girl, no older than four or five, nose red and tears streaks down her face.

"Get outta here, kid," he growled out, but the little girl began to cry in earnest, stopping him in his tracks. He started to recoil as she stood there, totally dejected. She wasn't being loud, but someone would be looking for her soon.

"Aw, come on. Don't … don't do that," he said, his voice soft as his gaze darted nervously around. She needed to talk to a Sentinel if she was lost – what the hell about him said approachable anyhow? He looked like shit – he could feel the bruise on his jaw and could still taste blood in his mouth.

Her tears increased; her little shoulders shook.

"Hey. Stop cryin' wouldja? What's wrong, are you lost?" he asked as he crouched down next to her, resting his hand on her upper arm, still trying to calm her or at least quiet her down.

Before he could stop her, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was crying into his shoulder. He grimaced a little and finally, hesitantly, returned her hug as he continued to look around.

_Damnit._ She finally started to settle down as he quit looking over his shoulder and tried to soothe her in earnest.

"Hey. What's your name, kid?" She took a deep breath and finally pulled herself away from his shoulder as she wiped the tears away.

"Elsie," she barely sobbed out. He gave her a little smirk. At least he felt like she was headed in the right direction.

"Alright, Elsie. I'm Logan. Are you lost?" he asked, hoping it would be a simple hand off to Mac if he could find him. She shook her head no.

"Someone hurt you?" he asked with a frown, the very idea of it pissing him off. But again she shook her head. He let out a breath of relief. At least there was that.

"Then what the hell is it?" he asked, already flustered over the entire situation.

"C'mon, I'll show you," she said as she took his big hand and dragged him away from the logging road. He glanced over his shoulder as she pulled insistently on him.

Admittedly, he was a little curious as to what was wrong and why in the world she would have picked him to try and help her out of everyone in town that was out and about. Just why today, when they were rounding up the guys that were fighting?

Ultimately, he didn't really want to go with her, but he knew if he didn't at least try to help her, she'd start crying again and Lord knows he didn't need to make anyone think he'd done something to make a little girl cry. There was no good way out of that.

"Alright, hurry up already," he urged, and she broke into a run. He walked quickly to keep up as he kept his head down and watched out for trouble. Maybe no one would notice this kid dragging him off.

She took him maybe eight blocks into town … near the orphanage. She finally slowed down, out of breath as she came to the foot of a tall maple tree.

"What the hell're we doin' here?" Logan asked. It was one of the few tall trees left in town, kept solely for its shade. She pointed up the tree, looking pitiful. He wrinkled his brow and took a step toward the trunk of the tree to look up.

"I don't get it, kid. What am I looking for?"

"A kitty," she said quietly. When he looked at her, she looked hopeful, her little hands clasped in front of her as she smiled sheepishly at him. He just stared at her for a moment. No way in hell was he going after a damn cat. He thought there had been an actual problem.

"No."

"Please!"

"No."

Her expression melted into huge alligator tears, and she began to cry again in earnest, drawing the attention of a few passersby. _Oh shit._

"Calm down.. hey.. just take it easy, darlin'," he said, trying to settle her down. But no luck there — it just got worse. He growled out in frustration. "If I promise to get your cat, will you quit cryin'?" he asked, desperate for her to stop drawing attention.

Just like that, as if flipping a switch, she stopped cold and nodded her head, her cheeks still glistening with tears.

He narrowed his eyes at her. She was playin' him. He knew he was stuck. He rubbed one hand across his stubble, resting finally on the side of his neck, his other hand at his hip as he shook his head at her.

Kid knew how to work him. Looking around them, he noticed a few women had stopped whatever they were doing to watch what was going on with the roughneck-looking young man and the little girl.

Knowing the way people's imaginations worked, he turned to look up the tree again, this time seeing a flicker of a white-tipped tail.

"You'll leave me alone if I get your cat down, right?" he asked. She nodded enthusiastically, a grin on her little features. "Alright," he finally conceded as he walked up to the tree. There wasn't a branch low enough to reach easily, but that didn't make much of a difference to him.

He took off his cowboy hat and set it on her head before dusting off his hands on his dirty jeans, purely out of habit. With a final look over his shoulder at the growing handful of women watching the scene unfold with their arms crossed, he stepped around the tree to look for the best place to start.

When he found a decent grip, he shimmied up the trunk to the lowest branch and pulled himself up to quickly climb the tree, eyes open for the cat.

"Her name is 'Tippy'," Elsie said. He had to chuckle at that. Yeah, of course it was.

He caught up with the little kitten maybe thirty feet up; the little black and white fluff ball was tucked into a little hollow. He carefully picked it up and stuffed it into his flannel shirt. He kept one hand over it as he slowly and carefully began to slip back down the tree one-handed. The last thing he needed was for the little furball to get away from him and climb out on the fine branches he couldn't reach.

When he dropped down from the bottom branch, the little girl was bouncing as she grinned at him; his hat fell to the grass as she rushed toward him.

He knelt down and unbuttoned his shirt enough to pull the kitten out, to her utter delight. He couldn't help but smile at her when she snuggled up to the fluffy little scamp.

"Don't let her get away from you again, little darlin'," he said gruffly to Elsie's enthusiastic smile. She barely remembered to thank him as she scurried off toward the orphanage. His smile fell from his face when he saw that was where she was headed.

The murmur from the women nearby caught his attention, and he picked up his hat. He slowly stood upright as he watched her run. He'd simply forgotten for a moment he was supposed to already be on his way out of town.

As he watched her disappear into the ominous-looking building, his train of thought totally derailed.

Mac was there.

"That was awfully nice for a hard ass like you," Mac said with smirk as he bumped Logan's shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest and a smile growing on his face. Logan gritted his teeth as he placed the hat back on his head.

"Don't you have something to do other than follow me around?" Logan asked, turning back toward the logging road.

"No, not really. It's a full-time job watching out for you," Mac said, walking with him, his grin firmly in place.

Logan shook his head, eyes on the ground. Just what he needed. An escort.

"Some woman said you were makin' a little girl cry. Lucky for you, they sent me to check it out. Even the boss didn't think that sounded like something you'd do," Mac told him cheerfully. Logan refused to speak, irritated that he'd been caught. "Keep doing stuff like that, and you're going to get a reputation as a nice guy."

"Shut up, Mac," Logan growled out as Mac grinned wider before leaning toward him conspiratorially.

"If it makes you feel any better, being escorted out of town might just preserve your tough guy reputation. After all, it was just the head Sentinel's wife and a few of her best friends that saw you get snookered by little Elsie Dee back there," Mac informed him with a laugh.

At the mention of the head Sentinels' wife, Logan stopped in his tracks, eyes shut tightly as he looked almost in pain. That woman was the worst damn gossip in town. Short of the head Sentinel, that is.

"It's not like the women like to talk or that any of them have been watching you while you're in town," Mac continued, clearly enjoying the young man's discomfort. Logan cracked an eye open and raised an eyebrow as he glared at Mac for a moment. If word didn't reach the cutters camp before he did, he'd be shocked.

"It's not a bad thing, Logan. Really. I tease you, but if word gets out that you're a good guy, things might just ease up on you a little," Mac said with no small measure of optimism, "And I think you're long overdue for a little good luck, don't you?"


	19. Meet the Preppers

**(A/N): We're back with another one-shot while the Boss Man is out of town! This one's Peter Parker, written as always by the hilarious and adorable abrokencastiel. **

**Thank you to GeekyComicBookGuy and to I-OfTheHawk for their reviews, as well as to our regular writers who reviewed. Your support means a lot to us!**

* * *

**Meet the Preppers**

**Peter Parker of District Eight**

**Written by abrokencastiel**

* * *

_We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight; somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken_"." – Fyodor Dostoevsky

* * *

"You two are going to just love this." Betty led the way down the hall, Peter and Anna a few steps behind. "You'll be pampered, and at the end, you will look so beautiful I probably won't be able to recognize you! Who knows, Rogue dear; maybe they can fix that white stripe of yours."

"No one's touchin' my hair," Anna warned, a hand going to her highlight.

Peter suppressed a smile as Betty sighed. "For the record, I like it," he told his companion.

"No one asked, but thank ya," she mumbled back to him.

"Here we are!" Betty stopped and motioned to two doors. "Let the transformations begin." She smiled as she ushered them along.

Peter stepped up to his assigned door that silently slid open as he approached. Inside, three people waited. One of them looked up and grinned, stopping Peter in his tracks. The guy — it had to be a guy — was covered in tattooed scales that shifted from blue to orange in patches and were accented by spiky, bright orange hair.

"He's hee-ee-ere!" he yelled in a sing-song voice.

"We know. We are literally right next to you." The other man, dark-skinned with smooth dreadlocks that gradually became a green hue and were held back by a green band, frowned and crossed his large arms in annoyance.

The first guy didn't seemed fazed. He instead dashed over and did a quick circle of Peter, who couldn't stop staring, wide-eyed. The guy's yellow eyes had slit pupils, like a cat.

"Yeah, everyone looks at him like that." The lone female walked over and stuck out her hand for Peter to shake. Her dark hair was shaved short on the left side of her head and hung down to her chin on the right. "I'm Go Go, that's Wasabi, and snake guy is Fred."

"Kaiju, Go Go. Not snake. If anything less, maybe a lizard. Can you believe this girl?" Fred rolled his eyes and looked meaningfully at Peter. "Snakes don't breathe fire or do anything cool."

"You can't breathe fire either," Go Go argued.

"You never know! Technology can do amazing things. Someday, I may be able to cook you like a marshmallow."

"Ignore them," Wasabi said as he came up to Peter. "You must be Peter Parker, right?"

Peter smiled. "You guys my stylists?"

Wasabi chuckled and shook his head. "No, just your prep-team. We're the ones who will get you ready to meet Honey Lemon."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Honey Lemon? Wasabi? Go Go? I don't know whether to think your names are odd or Fred's in comparison."

"I actually go by the alter-ego of Fredzilla." Fred wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Peter opened and closed his mouth, not sure at all how to respond.

"Alright, enough chit-chat. We need to get you ready." Go Go went behind Peter and pushed him by his shoulders to a shower stall at the back.

Peter stepped in, thoroughly confused.

"Do you always shower with your clothes on?" Fred asked. "Actually, that would be a good way to do laundry," he added as an afterthought.

Go Go rolled her eyes. "Come on, kid. We haven't got all day."

Heat rose in Peter's cheeks, and he hesitated.

"Don't be nervous. We do this all the time," Wasabi assured him.

"Why do we always get the shy ones?" Go Go muttered.

Peter set his jaw and swallowed his nerves before removing his clothes and dropping them outside the shower. He kept silent, with his eyes averted, as the trio scrubbed him down from head to toe. His skin felt like it lost a few layers as their brushes scratched across him.

They finished fairly quickly, and Wasabi presented a gown to him after he had dried off. It fit like a potato sack, was an odd shade of blue, scratchy, too long to be short, and too short to be long. In a word, uncomfortable, but better than nothing.

"We usually make the tributes remain in the nude," Fred informed Peter.

"Thanks for this," Peter said with a relieved smile.

"Only because you didn't argue with us too much," Wasabi said.

"And so you wouldn't keep blushing like a schoolgirl," Go Go added as she led him to the stainless steel table in the centre of the room. "You were beginning to make _me_ feel embarrassed."

Peter hopped up on the table and laid down. The cold seeped its way through the thin gown and caused him to shiver as the prep team scrutinized him.

"We are going to have to fix those eyebrows."

"His nails are pretty rough."

"Do they even use acne treatment in the districts? It looks like a kaiju laid waste to his forehead."

They immediately started working. He flinched as Go Go waxed an eyebrow, earning a stern warning to not move or else she'd give him two different shapes.

"Just imagine how embarrassing that will be. We might have to just wax them off completely. Like Fredzilla over there." She grinned down, her dark hair falling in a curtain and giving her a shadowed expression.

"Hey, everyone wishes they were as cool as me." Fred picked up a mirror and smiled at his reflection. "I am beautiful."

Go Go rolled her eyes but didn't argue as a small smile crossed her lips.

"So, Peter, how's your time been so far in our fair Capitol?" Wasabi asked as he picked at Peter's cuticles.

"Well, I've only been here a few hours, and so far I've been stared at, stripped, and now I'm being tortured." Go Go ripped off another wax paper that made his eyes water, but he kept still like she'd ordered.

"Overreact much?" Fred laughed from somewhere over Peter's shoulder that he couldn't see.

An ominous whirring sound started from that direction. "I would close my eyes if I were you."

Peter did as he was told, tensing up as the noise got closer to his ear. "Definitely being tortured."

"Relax, dude. I got this."

"Forgive me for not completely trusting a guy who looks like a snake."

"Ha!" Go Go cried triumphantly. "Told you you looked like a snake!"

Fred grumbled under his breath about monsters and lizards as he buffed Peter's face.

"Calm down, Fred. Don't take it out on the poor kid." Wasabi chuckled as he rubbed something over the top of Peter's fingernails.

There was a lull in conversation while Fred finished up what felt like sanding Peter's face. Wasabi moved to Peter's feet, and Go Go worked on the skin of his hands.

"How long have you guys been doing this?" Peter asked once he could talk again.

"Four years," Go Go said.

"Seven for me, though I've only worked with these two for a couple years now." Wasabi pointed his tweezers at his companions.

Fred reappeared from putting the buffer away. "I've only been doing it since Honey started working as an official stylist. Smile for me." Peter complied, and Fred spread a paste on his teeth. "Nasty, right?" he asked when Peter made a face. "It does the job, though. Makes your teeth whiter than, uh, um."

"This room?" Go Go supplied.

"The Collector's hair?" Wasabie countered.

"Thanos's mansion?"

"Marshmallows?"

"The toilet?"

"Go Go!"

"What? It's pretty darn white."

"Anyway," Fred continued. "This will make your teeth white enough to blind people. Here. Rinse and spit."

Peter gladly did so, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll be sure to use that tactic in the arena."

The trio chuckled politely, though it seemed strained.

"We'll have to sponsor you with a tube," Wasabi said.

"Just don't eat it. It causes indigestion." Fred made a face and held his stomach. "I ate a whole tube once on accident."

Peter frowned. "How in the world did you manage that?"

"I thought it was candy." Fred shook his head sadly.

"What kind of candy tastes like that?" Peter couldn't imagine making that mistake.

"We don't know what planet he originates from." Wasabi sighed and moved to help Peter sit up. "No person would be able to survive eating what he does on a regular basis."

"Hold still one more time," Go Go ordered. She used a razor on the nape of his neck and to trim up his sideburns. "Done. We'll leave this alone." She ruffled his mess of hair with a smirk. "It's kinda cute."

"We good to go?" Wasabi asked.

"I guess. Still not happy with his hands." Go Go frowned as Peter hopped to his feet. "Those calluses are stubborn."

Peter looked at his palms and the thickened skin. "Hey, it's taken me years of climbing to build these up. I think they're down to the bone at this point."

Fred held out a robe. "Switch out. No more gowns. No excuses."

Peter quickly exchanged clothes before he could think too much about stripping in front of them again. The softness was a welcome change from the scratchy gown, and it worked to warm him up after lying on the cold table.

"Ready?"

"Lead the way." Peter cinched his robe tighter as Wasabi led the group to a door in the far wall.

"You're going to love her," Fred assured him. "More importantly, I think she's going to love you."

They entered another stark white room. A woman in a bright yellow dress sat in a chair, drawing in a large sketch pad. She looked up as Peter entered, a wide smile crossing her face. She stood and rushed over to shake Peter's hand.

"It's so nice to meet you," she gushed. "I'm Honey Lemon, your stylist."

"Peter Parker, your tribute." Peter returned the smile.

"As always, you guys have done an amazing job. He looks perfect." Her green eyes shone as she looked Peter over.

"That's only because he was such a good sport for all of it." Wasabi clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder.

"He's a little shy, but we're working on that," Go Go said with a wink that made Peter blush again.

Honey chuckled. "I hope they didn't give you too much trouble."

"Well, the waxing was a bit much, but nothing else was too bad."

"Please, he doesn't know pain until his legs get waxed," Go Go said, making Peter visibly flinch at the thought.

Honey rolled her eyes. "Go Go has too much fun with that."

"Alrighty, we will leave you two to it." Wasabi ruffled a hand through Peter's hair. "Take care of the kid."

"Before we go, I want you to imagine something," Fred said, stepping up to lay an arm across Honey's shoulder. He waved a hand through the air dramatically. "Just imagine him as a monster ready to eat the other tributes. Scary. Terrifying!" He made claws with his hands and grimaced at Honey.

"Stop putting crazy ideas in Honey's head. Let her work her magic." Go Go grabbed Fred's arm and began pulling him out of the room, followed closely by Wasabi.

"I want to see eat-em-alive when we come back!" Fred ordered in parting before the door slid shut, leaving Peter with Honey and whatever she had up her bright sleeves.

"Can I just say one thing before we get started?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Please don't make me a lizard person."


	20. Love is Strange

**(A/N): Here we are with another lovely Sin story, written as always by the talented Silmarilz1701. This covers the time just before Sin volunteered, and it's a great insight to the hints of romance we got in her last Games chapter. Enjoy!**

**Thank you to I-OfTheHawk and our writing crew for their lovely reviews!**

* * *

**Love is Strange**

**Sinthea Schmidt of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701**

* * *

_"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you." _

_\- Elbert Hubbard_

* * *

Sinthea Schmidt was on a midnight walk one mid-December day in her seventeenth year. The blackness was so thick it was almost palpable. She had on only a ragged, long-sleeve shirt and pants, all of which looked black in the darkness. She was cold, but that was minor compared to the inner turmoil she was feeling.

She felt as though everything was coming crashing down around her. Everything.

Sinthea was a very strong young woman, both physically and emotionally. She knew all the best ways to kill someone quickly, especially with knives. She knew how to catch and cook rats that crawled inside their house in the winter. She knew how to shut people out. She knew how to keep people from seeing her depressive side.

Her depression was something she had struggled with as a younger child as well, but she hadn't understood it. It all started after she joined the Serpent Squad.

Sinthea had been sent out on patrol with their leader, who was mute. They got into a scuffle with some members of the Wrecking Crew, and everything had gone downhill.

* * *

_"Help!" the thirteen-year-old Sinthea screamed as she was being slashed with a knife._

_She had just seen her gang leader and only companion overcome and sliced in the jugular. She was not one to usually ask for help, but for now, it was just her and two older teenage boys intent on killing her — and they'd disarmed her. Sin tried to scream again, but they grabbed her mouth and pulled her close to one of their chests. They had her in a death grip, and at thirteen and barely five feet tall, Sin wasn't going anywhere soon._

_"Shut your mouth, little bitch. We're just getting started with you!"_

* * *

Sinthea shuddered. Men were evil, she was sure of it. Yeah, she wasn't perfect either, but men just wanted to use women for their own benefit. And they had — they had used her. In the worst and most humiliating ways possible.

But perhaps not all men were evil.

* * *

_She was tired. She hurt all over. She was naked and tied to a small support pole in an old abandoned factory building. Sin had given up hope of being rescued. After all, it wasn't like the Sentinels were going to waste their time investigating the kidnapping of a known troublemaker and gang member, especially since she was poor as hell._

_She had spent the night in this place, and now it was dawn. Crossbones would be walking to school by himself today. She would not be there to go with him._

* * *

Sinthea continued to walk until she passed by a familiar house, a friendly house. Crossbones' house. She stared at the dark window and wondered if he was asleep before she continued walking.

Soon, however, she drew her knife and spun around. She'd heard quiet footsteps on the path behind her. To her surprise, it was a familiar face.

"What are you doing?!" she hissed at Crossbones. "What if your parents come looking for you?"

"Screw them." He shrugged. "Just thought I'd see what you were up to."

"I'm just doing some thinking," she replied.

Brock gasped. "Sin? Thinking?"

She rolled her eyes as memories kept flooding her brain.

* * *

_Crossbones had found her. She heard the swish of a knife fly through the air and imbed itself in its target. The gurgling of blood was heard as another member of the Wrecking Crew's throat was sliced. By now, the Wrecking Crew had been alerted to the presence of an enemy, which made Crossbones' job more difficult. But the thirteen-year-old, in spite of not being a gang member, had trained Sinthea, and he was good. Good enough to take on the Wrecking Crew that was present. The sound of cracking bones and skin on skin radiated through the factory building, echoing off the metal walls._

_"Sinthea?!"_

_Her voice was so scratched from her screams the previous night that she couldn't call out to him as he searched for her. She couldn't warn him as he got close to the Wrecking Crew member waiting to pounce._

* * *

"So what are you thinking about?" asked Crossbones.

She didn't want to talk about it. "Nothing you need to know about. I can handle myself."

Crossbones nodded but continued to walk alongside her. He wouldn't pressure her. He knew he'd probably end up with a broken nose if he did. But he wanted to keep her company.

They soon reached a small stream on the outskirts of the city. It had a rocky shoreline, and Sin stooped down, picked up a rock, and chucked it into the flowing water in anger. She took strange comfort in the ripples it made; it was like how she would make ripples in history when she would win the Avenger Games this year. She had finally decided this was the year to volunteer.

Crossbones looked at her. She looked at him.

* * *

_She could only watch in horror and anger as a large teenage member of the Crew ambushed Crossbones as he rushed at Sinthea. The Crew member bashed him in the back with a metal pole. Crossbones, stunned on the ground, was vulnerable. But he wouldn't stay like that for long._

_Crossbones rolled to the left, pushing himself up off the ground as the Wrecking Crew gang member went in with another hit. He grabbed his knife from the body of the first victim and turned to face his final challenger._

* * *

"I'm gonna volunteer this year for the Games." Sin shrugged.

"I know."

Sin tilted her head. "How did you know?"

"I know you better than you know yourself," Crossbones pointed out.

Sin snorted. Crossbones, if he wanted to, would be an excellent Avenger Games tribute. He was well-versed in self-defence, big, strong, all qualities of a good victor. He wasn't afraid of fighting, or of killing.

* * *

_The member of the Crew ran at Crossbones, but Brock was faster. He dodged the Crew member and stabbed him in the side. Blood poured out from him, but it wasn't fatal. _

_Crossbones, despite his age and size, was doing tremendously well against the older teen._

_After nearly a minute of trading blows, Crossbones managed to land a fatal hit on the Wrecking Crew member, stabbing him first in the foot to distract him and then in the neck to finish him off._

_"You okay, Sin?"_

* * *

The thing about Sinthea and Crossbones was that they knew everything about each other. They knew each other's strengths, and each other's weaknesses. They'd seen each other at highs, and they'd seen each other at lows.

That's how Sin knew Crossbones would never volunteer for the Games. He felt too responsible for his district, for keeping the gangs in line by using their own methods against them. True, his best friend was a gang member, but he never joined one himself. So he would never volunteer.

But what Sin didn't realize was how love could change everything. If she didn't come back from the Games, Crossbones was already planning his trip there as a tribute to avenge her. If she didn't come home, he would follow in her footsteps.

But of course, he could never tell her that. Love was strange that way.


	21. Susie

**(A/N): Hello, we're back with more one-shots as we return you to the world of pre-Games Kate Bishop, written as always by robbiepoo2341. Robbie's taking us on a nice little tour of life in District Twelve over the years for Kate, and we hope you enjoy it.**

**Thanks again to sailorraven34 for the review. We hope you continue to love the world we're working to create here!**

* * *

**Susie**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

"_There can be no situation in life in which the conversation of my dear sister will not administer some comfort to me."_ –Mary Montagu

"_That's the best thing about little sisters: They spend so much time wishing they were elder sisters that in the end they're far wiser than the elder ones could ever be."_ _-_-Gemma Gurgess

* * *

"Susie, how come Dad bought you a new dress?"

Kate was sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth. Kate didn't have a new dress to wear, even though she was getting taller every day — Susan said so! — so why shouldn't she have her own new dress?

Susan had a pretty dress, and it was purple, which was Kate's favourite colour. Daddy was always getting that mixed up — Susan liked pink, and Kate liked purple. Why was that so hard?

Kate wore her own pink, frilly, lacy _thing._ The lace at the edges of the sleeves itched where it met her bare skin, and she hated it, and she told Susan so.

Susan just laughed and picked Kate up underneath her arms. (Kate hated it when Susan did that, but Susan was five years older than she was, so what could she do to fight? The answer was obviously to lick Susan's hand to gross her out and make her let go, but Kate didn't do that this time.) When Susan set her down again, she was crouching so that she and Kate were looking each other in the eyes. "I get a new dress because I'm awesomer than you, obviously," she said.

Kate stuck her tongue out at her older sister. "That's a lie," she said.

Susan giggled. Then, without warning, she pounced. She grabbed Kate around the middle and started _tickling_.

Kate gasped, bending every which way in an attempt to get away, to _breathe_. When Susan finally let go, Kate's hair had come down out of its braids, and she was missing a shoe.

While Kate continued to giggle, Susan helped her into a chair so that she could redo the braids. Susan had always been really good at doing hair and at making clothes look pretty.

"I got a new dress," Susan said quietly, "because today's my first Reaping where my name's in."

Kate nodded sagely, even though she didn't quite understand. She knew that lots of kids had their names in the Reaping bowl, but Daddy was always saying that his girls would never get picked. And Daddy might have been annoying, but he was usually right when it came to the important stuff. Except when he was wrong and Kate was right, because Kate was _always _right.

"I wanted purple," Kate said, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting.

Susan laughed, then reached up to take the purple ribbon out of her own hair. She had intricately braided it into her hair, too, so that meant Susan would have to redo her own locks, but Kate didn't care, because it looked so _cool _in her own, black braid.

Kate went searching for her missing shoe while Susan fixed up her hair in the mirror. She found it behind the table and slipped it onto her foot.

"Susie?" she called over.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to be scared," Kate said. She had crossed the room to come give her sister a hug, because hugs always worked when Kate was scared, so they would probably work on Susan. "Somebody else will go die, and you'll just be home looking really pretty and making lots of boyfriends," she teased.

But Susan looked like she might cry, so Kate's hugs must not have worked.

Kate frowned. She wrapped her arms around her big sister's middle so that the older Bishop couldn't go anywhere.

"Kate…"

"You're my best friend," Kate said into the folds of her sister's dress. "And I'm pretty sure that means I get to keep you forever, okay?"

"Okay." Susan reached down and ruffled Kate's hair — but not too much, since she probably didn't want to have to redo it.

* * *

Kate didn't really understand why Susan was so upset this year. She sat down at the kitchen table and played with the hem of her skirt (purple this year, at last) while her older sister hemmed and hawed over her reflection in the mirror.

"Susie?" she asked quietly. "Would you do my hair?"

Susan stopped looking in the mirror and looked over at Kate, and her entire expression changed. A huge grin broke out over her face, and she practically skipped across the room.

"You didn't think I forgot about you, did you, Katie?"

Katie made a face. She hated it when Susan called her that, and maybe when she was twelve and old enough to go to her own Reaping, Susan would think she was grown up enough to stop calling her that.

Although, come to think of it, Kate still called her sister Susie…

Susan worked her magic, and it always felt nice for Kate when she got her hair done. Susan never pulled or hurt her head, and she always made Kate look so pretty!

"You're thinking about a boy," Kate said as Susan put the finishing touches on Kate's hair. This year, Susan had curled Kate's hair into a cool little design that pulled through in the back. It looked really pretty. All the other girls in school were always telling Kate that she was so lucky to have a sister who did her hair like that, and Kate knew it was true.

Susan sighed as she took one more look in the mirror. "Is it that obvious?"

"I've known you my whole life, Susie. You always look like a nincompoop when you're thinking about a boy."

"Nincompoop? Who taught you that word?"

Kate snorted. "I'm ten years old, Susie. I'm not a kid anymore."

Susan laughed and gave Kate a huge hug, snuggling right in so that their noses were almost touching. "Don't say things like that," Susan teased. "You're _never _going to grow up, okay? You'll always be my baby sister."

Kate made a face. "I'm not a baby."

"Oh, yes you are," Susan teased. She swept Kate up in her arms, pulling her legs out from underneath her so that she was carrying Kate bridal style.

Kate pushed against her sister, laughing as they both tumbled into a heap. It took several long minutes for the wave of giggling and pushing and tickling to subside, and when it did, they fell into silence.

Finally, Kate said, "I think it's that boy from school."

Susan looked over at Kate with raised eyebrows.

"I think he's cute," Kate continued, undeterred. "I think you should get married."

* * *

"Look at you in your new dress."

Susan was waiting for Kate outside Kate's bedroom door. Kate was wearing pink again this year, because Daddy had bought her a new dress and forgot _again _that her favourite colour was purple.

Kate shifted uncomfortably in the dress. It was really poufy, and she didn't like it.

"You look _gorgeous_," Susan gushed, drawing her into a huge hug. But her eyes were full of tears, and Kate knew why.

This was Kate's first Reaping. She hadn't understood, before, what that meant. When Susan had gone, it had all seemed so distant, so unreal. Even though she knew in her head that her sister might get drawn, it was different actually being part of it. Her name was only in there once, but it was still … scary.

"You really do," said a new voice from the hallway. It was Jack, Susan's boyfriend. He was nice, and Kate liked him, but it was still weird. He'd been hanging out in their house almost every single day, and while Kate appreciated that he would play with her and sometimes picked her up and swung her around or gave her piggyback rides, it wasn't the same as having her older sister all to herself.

"It's that growth spurt," Susan said, suddenly standing up a little straighter and speaking with a little more of an airy tone. She turned into such a flirt when Jack was around — it was almost funny. "People are already saying she looks at least fourteen."

Kate grinned at that. She liked that people thought she was older. It made her feel less like the baby of the family.

Jack laughed. "Don't go rushing too fast," he said. He always sounded like he was smiling, even when he wasn't. Kate liked that, and she was trying to be like that, too. "Next thing you know, she'll be _dating_."

Susan gasped in mock terror and flung her arms around Kate. "Oh, that's horrid!" she exclaimed. Then, turning to Kate, she said, "Well, there's nothing for it. We're just going to have to lock you up until you're twenty-nine."

Kate stuck her tongue out at her sister. She'd heard it all before, and she knew they were just teasing her because it was her first Reaping, and she knew she looked scared. And she knew Susan was scared for her, because Susan looked like she was going to cry again. She'd cried and cried all last night when she thought Kate couldn't hear.

Susan hadn't always been like that. But she had such a tender heart that the older she got, the more she saw of the world. And Susan didn't like it.

Kate knew more than Susan gave her credit for knowing. She knew that Susan cried when people died in the mines. She knew that Susan cried through the whole Avenger Games. She knew that Susan cried every time Daddy got a new girlfriend. She knew that Susan cried every time she saw someone who had died overnight of hunger. Susan wasn't built to stand a place like District Twelve, and Kate privately thought that only Jack was keeping her from going insane.

It was a good thing they were going to get married.

Kate had overheard them talking about it. This year was Jack's last Reaping, and next year was Susan's. As soon as they were both old enough not to get Reaped, they were going to hold a big wedding. Lots of people — the day after Reaping Day. Kate hadn't asked yet, but she really wanted to be the flower girl, and she was sure Susan would say yes.

Kate took her usual seat in the kitchen chair and let Susan do her hair. Susan had decided to do a particularly tricky braid that went all the way around Kate's head and then came back into a neat little rose-shaped thing at the back. It took Susan a long time to learn, and Kate's head had been pretty sore from letting Susan practice, but Susan had seen it on TV, so she wanted to try it out.

Susan was always watching TV. Kate thought that secretly Susan was always pretending that she lived in the Capitol and not in District Twelve.

"There, now. All done! Doesn't she look amazing?" Susan declared.

Kate turned to look at herself in the mirror and then rushed to give her sister the most arm-crunching hug she could manage. She didn't let go for a long time, not until Jack cleared his throat and said that they should really get going. They didn't want to miss the Reaping.

Susan and Jack walked arm-in-arm all the way to the Reaping, with Kate trailing along behind — but when they had to separate, Susan switched into Big Sister mode.

Kate liked Big Sister mode better than Girlfriend Mode.

Susan looped her arm through Kate's as they walked toward the lady who was supposed to prick their fingers and take their blood.

"Now, don't worry, Katie," Susan was saying in Kate's ear, but Kate didn't need anyone to hold her hand. She strolled right up and held out her finger and even managed not to cry out when the needle hurt more than she had expected.

Kate was trying to be brave. For Susan's sake.

But when the time came, she realized that she was still holding one of Susan's hands in her own, and her fingers just wouldn't let go.

Susan crouched down so that their eyes were level. She looked at Kate and said, "Do you remember what you told me on my first Reaping Day?"

Kate shook her head. There were so many people, and they were all staring at the kids, and Kate could see people she knew from school, and how awful would it be if they were chosen?

Susan must have known that Kate was spiralling, because she pulled her little sister in closer for a hug. "Listen to me," she said, and her voice sounded stronger and better than Kate had heard it in a long time. Kate wanted to stay there in that hug for forever and never go back.

"You're my best friend," Susan said. "And I'm pretty sure that means I get to keep you forever."

Kate went to go stand in line with the other twelve-year-olds, and ten minutes of holding her breath later, she wasn't sure why she was ever so scared, because she and Susan and Jack were all safe, and it was easy to forget how scared she was when they got home and Jack and Susan picked her up by her arms and legs and played airplanes.

Kate was really too old for airplanes, but it was fun anyway.

* * *

It was Susan's last Reaping Day, which meant that Kate's big sister was getting married tomorrow.

They didn't have new dresses just for the Reaping this time, which meant Kate had to wear the pink thing that Dad bought her last year again. But that was okay. She was going to wear a pretty purple _and _pink dress that Susan had picked out just for her so that she could be the flower girl. And besides, she was getting too old now to really care about pink and purple. She had even gone out near the fence to pick some flowers.

Of course, the prettiest flowers were _over _the fence, but Kate didn't know yet how to get to the other side of it. She thought about it a lot, because Susan was gone all the time now, and Kate was looking for something new to occupy her time. Something more adventurous. Being alone in the house when Dad was always gone was so _boring_.

And of course, that was how it should be. Susan was _supposed _to spend all her time with the boy who was going to be her husband. But it didn't make the hurt sting any less.

Susan didn't have time to do Kate's hair this Reaping Day, and it was the first year that had ever happened. But that was okay, too. Kate had pulled her big sister aside and explained, in no uncertain terms, that Susan was going to be married, and that meant that she needed to focus on her own family now. And make little baby Susans so she could do _their _hair.

Susan had cried and told Kate that she was so grown up. Kate had cried only after Susan was gone into the other room.

So Kate stood in her bedroom, facing her mirror. She didn't really know how to do hair, but she had brushed it out so that it laid flat and then stuck a headband on top. That was passable.

When she came down to the kitchen, Daddy and his girlfriend had already gone, which meant she had to walk to the Reaping by herself. It wasn't that Kate minded, really. It just would have been nice to have somebody to walk with.

She saw a few people that she knew from school on her way, but they didn't stop to say hello to her or anything. Kate had lots of friends at school, but as they got older, a lot of them spent less time at school, and Kate didn't see them as much. A few of them were home taking care of their parents or their siblings. One girl had starved, and Kate hadn't learned about it until three days later.

That was awful.

Kate pulled down the hem of her dress, wishing that it would go past her knees. She hadn't realized that she'd had another growth spurt, and now her legs were too long for the rest of her, knobby knees sticking out and looking awkward. She hoped that she would grow up into the beauty that her sister was, but for now, she was stuck in the weird-looking stage.

Not that you'd know it, if the looks one of the Sentinels gave her as she passed by were anything to judge by. Kate shuddered. She didn't like being looked at that way. It made her feel … uneasy.

She met up with Susan close to where everyone was gathering. Jack had given her one last hug before he went off to stand with the adults, and Susan was standing there looking over the crowd, probably trying to spot Kate.

Kate sidled up to her sister and gave her a big hug. "Are you excited for tomorrow?" she asked.

Susan's entire face broke out into a grin. "You know it," she said. "Everybody's going to be there! And Daddy sprang for the apple crisps that I asked him to get. You know how he likes to spoil us. And I asked Jack about the colours…"

Kate smiled as her sister droned on and on about the wedding preparations. She'd heard it all before, and it was nice to see Susan get so excited about things like that. Kate didn't really care much about fashion, but she'd learned so much from Susan that she could hardly keep from noticing the way their Capitol escort, Ian Boothby, was dressed. Susan was right — orange was currently the "in" colour.

Kate wandered over to stand with the 13-year-olds, and she daydreamed through the entire Reaping. It was much easier to daydream through things like that when the little blonde girl they called up — her name was Cassandra — burst into tears. She looked like she was maybe Kate's age.

There was a girl in the 13-year-olds section, one that Kate had never seen before — so she probably didn't go to school. She had bushy, black hair and an expression on her face that screamed "murder." Kate wondered if this girl and Cassandra had been friends, but she didn't dwell on it too much. Instead, she thought about what kind of music there would be at Susan's wedding.

* * *

It was different this year — going to the Reaping. Less lonely, somehow. Maybe it was because Kate knew more of the faces in the crowd.

But it was also terrifying.

Kate had always been terrified of the Reaping, of course, but in more of an abstract way. She'd been scared that Susan would end up going, but as she got older, she understood why that wasn't very likely. And she'd been scared that she would get her name drawn, but she only had her name in three times this year.

Billy Kaplan, over there in the 13-year-old boys section — he already had his name in thirteen times. Kate didn't want him to get picked. He was really nice to her, and he and Teddy had made a real effort to make Kate feel included in their group, even though she had only been with them for a year. Billy's brother, Tommy, had his name in about thirty times (maybe more; he said he lost track), but that was because Tommy was always getting in trouble with the Sentinels, so sometimes he had to put his name in more often to get as much food as Billy got.

Teddy, standing next to Billy, as usual, had his name in twenty times, even though this was only his second Reaping. He didn't have foster parents like Billy and Tommy did, so he and America (who also didn't have parents) hung out in the abandoned storm cellar that their group called their base. Eli sort of lived there, too, and so did Nathaniel Richards, sometimes, but mostly Teddy and America hung out there.

America was standing next to Kate. She was wearing the same dress that she wore last year, and it was too tight in the sleeves, so she'd torn the sleeves off. Kate could only imagine what Susan was probably saying, somewhere in the crowd of adults, about "that wild girl next to Kate."

Susan didn't really know any of Kate's new friends, and Kate didn't think she would even introduce them. Here were two worlds that definitely didn't need to cross. Susan probably couldn't handle knowing that Kate was hanging out with kids who were — how would she put it? — so far beneath them on the social ladder?

Kate smiled at the thought and then turned her attention to Ian Boothby, who had shuffled forward to begin the Reaping. He called out the names of two kids that Kate didn't know, and Kate pretended not to be ridiculously relieved as she turned to America and grinned.

"Well," America said with a grim smile, "at least this year they didn't get another one of us."

Kate frowned. She hadn't really known Cassie before she'd been sent to the Games, but she and her newly acquired group of friends had watched that year's Games more intensely than Kate had ever watched them before.

It was different, watching the Games with people who'd been close to the girl on the screen. It made it more real.

Billy had cried for a week after Cassie died, and so had Teddy, though he made everyone swear not to tell Billy, because Teddy had been a crutch for Billy that whole week. Tommy disappeared somewhere and didn't show up again for a month. Eli went after him, and Nathaniel locked himself up in his room to tinker.

America had taken a different approach. She went the beat-everything-in-sight-to-a-pulp route, and that meant Kate had become target practice. Kate had learned the basics of fighting pretty fast after that.

And it never really went away, Kate knew, because she could see it on the looks on all her friends' faces as they filed out of the square, away from the hated podium where the glass bowls were still standing. It had been a year, and the pain was still there.

Kate was just about to go talk to Tommy, who looked like he wanted to talk to her, but Susan got to her first.

Susan wrapped her arms around Kate and pulled her into a big hug, and Kate just melted into her big sister without meaning to. She forgot about Tommy — she'd see him later — and focused instead on her sister.

"You made it through another year," Susan breathed into Kate's hair as she hugged Kate even tighter.

"Susie, I can't breathe," Kate complained.

Susan released her and laughed girlishly. "Sorry," she said. She surveyed Kate. "Where did you get that dress?" she asked. "I thought you were going to wear your flower girl dress this year."

Kate had a harder time smiling now as she thought of the dress, which was strung out in pieces all over the forest floor beyond the fence. She'd ripped it to shreds and donated the shreds to Richards' traps so that she and America could find them more easily. Just look for the little pink ribbons, and you're about two steps from a trap, she knew.

But she didn't tell Susan that. She didn't want Susan to know that she'd never, _ever _wear that dress again, because the last time she'd worn it had been the day she… had been the day that Sentinel…

Well, it had been the day she joined Eli Bradley's little band of adventurers.

So she just shrugged. "I grew out of it," she said. "It didn't fit me anymore."

Susan sighed. "You should have brought it to me! I could have fixed it up no problem," she said. Her eyes were gleaming. "I told you about the sewing business I've got going, didn't I?"

Kate shook her head. Susan and Jack often came over for Sunday dinners, but Jack and Dad spent most of the time talking shop (since Jack was following his father-in-law into the merchant business), so Kate usually didn't pay much attention during dinner.

"Oh! I thought I'd mentioned it," Susan said, looking dismayed. But then she brightened up. "Oh, but it's such a good business. I don't charge very much, of course, because, you see, there's so many people in this district who can't afford to pay what I'd _like _to charge, but just before Reaping Day I'm always so busy with dresses and dress shirts and all sorts of things that people are trying to make last for one more year."

Susan launched into a discussion of the different types of alterations and fabrics that she had been going through for the past few weeks, and Kate found herself walking arm in arm through the district with her big sister — something she hadn't done in what felt like ages.

It was strange, talking with Susan again. Like nothing had changed. Like Susan was still just her big sister and not a married woman with her own problems and life to deal with. Like Kate was still just the little sister and not a thrill-seeking adventurer who got into fights with her friends almost every day and could hit almost every target America had set up for teaching her the bow and arrow.

But Kate couldn't tell Susan about how much she loved archery. She couldn't talk about the bow Richards had given her or the arrows that Tommy was always running around collecting for her because he was always trying to be nice to her. She couldn't talk about how America had tried to teach Kate more hand-to-hand, and Kate was pretty good at that… But nothing was as wonderful as archery.

But Kate _could _talk with Susan about fashion, and so they walked past the fence (Kate spotted her hiding spot for her bow as they walked) and chatted about how green was the latest "in" colour and how Susan was _sure _that someday it would be purple, and wouldn't that be so nice for Kate?

Kate dropped Susan off at her house with promises to come visit more often, and then she took off running to go catch up with Tommy. He'd promised to take her to go see a lake somewhere outside the fence, and they needed America to help boost them over.

* * *

"Well."

"Well."

Kate was sitting in the receiving room, her head still reeling. Her father was standing in the corner, talking with Jack about what an outrage this was, how absurd it was that Kate's name had been drawn. But Susan? Susan was quiet.

Susan had squatted down so that she was eye-level with Kate, the way she used to do when they were little. Only this time she was doing it because Kate couldn't bring herself to leave her chair.

"I…" Susan paused, searching for words. Kate didn't have any to give her. "I…brought a brush."

Kate stared at her sister, surprised. Of all the things she had expected, _that _was the last on her list. She watched, still silent, as Susan brought a little hairbrush out of her dress pocket.

"I thought… I thought maybe I might do your hair."

Kate didn't trust herself to speak. She was too scared that she would cry. So she bit her lip and nodded, and Susan, who had been crying this whole time, came to stand behind Kate's chair.

Susan set to work, brushing out Kate's long locks. She was gentle, as always, but she didn't take as long as she usually did. It used to be that Susan would spend hours brushing through Kate's hair, until it shone like new roof shingles in the sun. But they only had ten minutes.

With each brush stroke, Kate could feel something wet on her head, like big, fat raindrops. She knew it was because Susan was crying, and Kate wiped at her own eyes, determined to make it through this without breaking.

When Susan finished, she walked around to face Kate again and surveyed her handiwork. "There," she said. "They'll … they'll love you in the Capitol." Her face contorted again, and she started to sob, but when Kate reached up to hug her sister, Susan pushed her away.

"Wait. I've got one more thing."

Susan reached into her bag and pulled out a purple headband. "I know you're awful at braids and twists," Susan explained. "So I thought maybe you could take this. It's more your style anyway."

Wordlessly, Kate took the headband. It had teeth on the inside that prickled her, but she didn't tell Susan that her gift was probably disadvantageous. She just smiled and tried not to cry.

"Everyone will want to wear the 'Kate Bishop look' when you get home," Susan said, before she burst into tears again.

This time, Susan didn't stop Kate when she rushed over to wrap her arms around her big sister. This time, Kate didn't stop herself from crying. This time, the two sisters knelt next to each other on the floor, with nothing but the sound of the men in their lives whispering words of comfort nearby.

"Susie?" Kate whispered underneath her sister's arms.

Susan looked down at Kate, her eyes glistening. "Yeah?"

"Remember what I told you, on your first Reaping Day?"

Susan's voice broke. "Yeah."

"You're my best friend," Kate said. "I'm pretty sure that means I get to keep you forever." She rested her head on her sister's shoulder as she added, "So don't worry. When I get back, I'll even let you design some outfits for me, okay?"

Susan had gone quiet, like she didn't trust herself to respond, and Kate looked up to say _something_, anything more to her sister. But the Sentinel arrived to announce that their time was up, and Kate could only stare down at the headband in her lap.


	22. Of Breaking And Forming Bonds

**(A/N): We're back with another update! This one's another joint chapter, with Bruce and Sinthea, written by Miran Anders and Silmarilz1701 respectively. They do an amazing job with their tributes, and we think you'll enjoy these two District Sixers spending some quality time together!**

**Thanks again to I-OfTheHawk and the writers who reviewed. We're glad you're continuing to love these characters and to come to root for them as much as we do!**

* * *

**Of Breaking and Forming Bonds**

**Sinthea Schmidt and Bruce Banner of District Six**

**Written by Silmarilz1701 and Miran Anders**

* * *

_Most times, how you treat your children is how they grow up to treat you. – _Terry Mark

* * *

Sinthea boarded the train with a flourishing wave out to her district. She followed behind Bruce Banner, her district partner, and their escort, Darcy Lewis. She stepped inside and found a lavishly decorated train car with mahogany wood and silk pillows. A bowl of fruit sat on a table, and Sinthea grabbed an apple as she walked by but stared at an exotic-looking fruit that sat next to the apples. _Weird_, she thought. But it was all very impressive.

Her work in the factory meant she understood most of what went into creating the mechanics of a train, but it was finished elsewhere in Marvel with furnishings. So she hadn't imagined it would look as impressive as it truly did.

"So we're going to be teammates," Bruce said.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" she bit back, "Are you too good for me? Too good 'cause you got into the school? Too good for a gang member?"

"Wow." He held up his hands. "I didn't say any of that."

Sinthea glared at him.

"Alright. So you don't want to talk; that's fine with me."

She plopped down on a couch with her apple and closed her eyes. She was finally leaving District Six. She was finally fulfilling her destiny in the Avenger Games. She was finally—

"Open your eyes."

That voice. Sinthea glared with her eyes still closed before opening them with a smug smile plastered on her face. It had been a long time since she'd heard that voice. The voice of her estranged father.

"Johann Schmidt," she said slyly. "Hello, hello!"

"I said open your eyes, not your mouth," he barked at her angrily.

Bruce and Darcy stood behind a counter, watching the interaction carefully. Sinthea glared at her father from where she sat below him on the couch. He towered above her, his red, burnt skull a menacing presence — but Sinthea wasn't fazed. She had gone all her life thinking of that red skull, alternating between hating it and admiring the man.

"You will listen and do exactly as I say while we are here and in the Capitol, is that understood?" He glared daggers at her.

"Better give me good advice, then," she bit back.

Darcy looked completely beside herself. She rushed into the middle area where the Schmidts were and stood between them as Johann brought a hand up to strike his insolent daughter.

"Now, let's all stay calm," she insisted. "Sinthea, go to your room. It's down the hall. Now."

Sinthea sneered but did as she was told. She slunk down the hall, glaring at Bruce as she passed. She found her door, the second on the left, and opened it.

The inside was just as impressive as the main sitting area of the train. She had regal silk blue sheets on her bed, and above the headboard was a porthole window. She knelt on her bed and looked out at the changing landscape. It was changing so quickly. She felt the tides of fate changing, too. Soon, she would be better than her father. Forget about matching him! She would win in a way so spectacular, _she_ would be the Schmidt people remembered. Not her father.

It would be Sinthea Schmidt. The girl called Sin.

She lay back on her bed with a small, forced smile on her face. She would win. She had to win. If she didn't, well, she didn't want to think about that. But the thought did slink into her mind and cloud her with a bit of doubt.

If she didn't win, she hoped to at least go out with bang. But she imagined all the possible ways she could die. Maybe poison? Maybe a dagger to the throat? Maybe a spear through the abdomen? Maybe—

A knock sounded on her door. She had no clue who it could be. After all, it certainly would not be her father to apologize. That was for certain. It wouldn't be the partner she'd recently yelled at. And Darcy was probably still trying to calm her father down.

She got up and opened the door to find it _was_ her district partner.

She nodded. "What do you want?"

He shrugged. "Can I come in?"

She was so surprised that she obliged, letting him past her into the room. They had only met once, and that had been at the Reaping, up on stage. They'd had to shake each other's hand.

Now here he was. A boy was in her room. A boy she didn't even know. It had taken a long time for her to even trust Crossbones that much to let him in her house. Boys were mean, vicious animals for the most part … but this boy, her district partner, reminded her of Crossbones when he was younger.

But Crossbones was a bit more vicious now. After all, you had to be to survive in District Six. But Sin and Crossbones, Sinthea and Brock, they were vicious together. They ruled the streets. The two of them were as feared as any gang, like the Wrecking Crew or Serpent Squad.

She turned her attention back to Bruce to see what he would say.

He gestured toward the low dresser that doubled as a seat and lifted his eyebrows. She shrugged, and he sat, staring at the carpet for a long moment.

"So."

She stared at him as she sat against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her knees. "So?"

"You and … your father."

"What about it?"

He looked up at her hesitantly. "I see you get along like a house on fire."

Sin rolled her eyes. "Oh, absolutely. People screaming, jumping out of windows … exactly like a house on fire."

Bruce grinned, and she couldn't help but smile a bit herself.

"Listen … I get it."

"I doubt it."

"No, really…" He took a deep breath and blew it out. "My father's an ass, too."

"Really." Sin had heard this kind of sympathy before and wanted none of it. "I doubt that your father—"

"He killed my mother." Bruce blurted it out so quickly that it took her by surprise. "Beat her to death. He said it was my fault."

A moment passed in silence, until Sinthea broke it.

"My father knocked up a maid, and when I wasn't a boy, he got rid of my mother and wanted to kill me off, too."

Several more moments of silence, and they cautiously looked at each other.

Bruce finally nodded. "It's horrible."

"Yeah."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Kind of funny, that the two of us—"

"Look, schoolboy, we're not that similar."

"We're not that different, either."

She looked away, trying to keep her emotional distance — although, she had to admit, it was getting harder.

He tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully. "You know, I don't think I've ever talked to anyone who might actually understand what it's like. To not have anyone who is just… I don't know. There, you know? There for you, no matter what? Someone who... " He shrugged. "I don't know. It would have been nice…"

Sin felt an odd sensation. Not like she did around Crossbones — or at least sometimes around Crossbones — but some kind of connection. _I wonder if this is what it's like to have a brother._ She looked at Bruce and read the same thoughts in his eyes.

"Yeah. Not much we can do about it," she said.

"No, I guess not." His brown eyes looked uncommonly sad. "Too bad we didn't meet back home. It might have been nice to have someone to talk to."

"Don't be stupid. You'd never talk to me, I'd never talk to you. The only reason we're talking now is because we're here."

He sighed. "I guess." Picking up a throw pillow, he turned it over several times. "I want you to know — your father is… well, he's acting, with me, anyway, he's —"

"Nice?" A saccharine smile touched her lips. "I noticed. Because you're the boy. He wants a legacy." _And he'll get one,_ she thought ruefully, _but it won't be this boy._

"Right. I have to be honest, for a little while it felt, well, nice." Again, his eyes betrayed a lifelong yearning, this time for a father who cared.

Sin looked away, not wanting to feel it.

"But seeing how he treats you? I can't —"

"Don't need your sympathy, schoolboy. I can take care of myself."

Bruce gave half a grin at her snapping response. "You sure can. What I'm saying is, the way he treats you … all I see is my father." He shrugged. "Another ass."

She didn't say anything, and he stood. "I just wanted you to know."

She smirked back. "He is an ass."

Sinthea knew, deep down, that her father would never accept her as his own. But that didn't mean she would stop trying. Nor would she stop hating his haunting red skull, his forceful voice.

Sinthea looked out the window. "District Seven's going to be broadcast soon. We could watch the Reaping in here. Size up our competition."

"Sure." Bruce shrugged.

Sinthea saw remotes for a TV but couldn't see the screen itself. She looked rather confused.

Bruce noticed her confusion. "I'll go see if Darcy is done, you know, calming the Red Ass. I mean, Skull."

Sin smirked but nodded.

As Bruce left the room, she fingered the skull pin she had stashed in her dress pocket. She lamented that she was still wearing the ugly yellow sundress and wondered if they had extra clothes here. But before she could take a look around, Bruce appeared again with Darcy in tow.

"Poor kids." She rolled her eyes. "Can't work the TV."

Sinthea glared at her, not appreciating the snarky attitude. Nevertheless, Darcy Lewis switched on a button, and out from the wall came a large, flat-screen television. Bruce thanked Darcy as she left, while Sinthea said nothing.

Sinthea had had a basic tube TV back home, but it only picked up the Reapings, which was a special channel. Despite this, she understood how to work it no problem. Even if it'd been an issue, Sinthea never would've let Bruce know or help.

Tuning in to the Avenger Games channel, they saw the familiar faces of Taneleer Tivan and Uatu the Watcher pop up on screen.

**"District Seven is always an interesting District, isn't it Taneleer?" **Uatu was saying.

Taneleer nodded emphatically. **"Very, very interesting. They do such great work with lumber!"**

**"Poor things, having to run around with axes, all sweaty each day,"** Uatu said with a voice full of pity.

**"It's a sacrifice they make for the good of everyone,"** Taneleer reminded his partner.

"Maybe for everyone in the Capitol." Sin rolled her eyes.

Bruce grunted in agreement.

**"And here we are, folks! Time for the anthem!"**

Sinthea and Bruce watched as the TV switched over to the anthem video. They watched it lazily, as they had already seen it once today, not that long ago. When it was over, the feed switched back to the Reaping itself.

There were hundreds of children lined up in the main area of District Seven's town. Just like in any of the districts, there were kids as young as twelve lined up to be Reaped. Sinthea had always put in at least twenty extra slips for rations since she was twelve. She realized how fortunate it was that she'd never been Reaped at a young age.

_Fortune?_ She scoffed. _Luck? Nay. Fate!_

**"Benedetta Gaetani!"**

Sinthea was jerked back to reality at the sound of the first name being called. Taneleer and Uatu were silent as the girl walked on stage.

"What's that on her face?" Sinthea blurted out. "Some kind of mask?"

Bruce shrugged. "Guess so. Unless it's some kind of religious thing."

The two hosts of the show were asking similar questions.

**"What could she have to hide?" **Uatu asked excitedly. **"Such intrigue!"**

**"Definitely." **Taneleer Tivan agreed. **"Will she ever take it off? What's she hiding beneath there?"**

Uatu hushed his partner. **"Time for the boys!"**

**"James Howlett!"**

Sinthea looked intently at the screen, hoping they'd show a close-up of the competition. So far, she'd completely written the Gaetani girl off. She was small and probably weak. No problem. But what of the boy?

There he was. Finally, the camera locked onto him as he began the slow trudge in the rain up to the stage. And man, was he well-built. His shirt clung to him as the rain pelted down, soaking his clothes. His immense muscles were visible beneath the cloth. He would be a problem.

"That Howlett kid looks dangerous." Bruce echoed her thoughts.

"Nothing I can't handle," Sinthea reminded herself as much as her district partner.

Bruce glanced at her sideways, noticing a certain admiration in her gaze. "Oh, I'm _sure_ you could handle him."

Her gaze shifted to her district partner. "And just what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

He chuckled and stared at the screen, speaking with exaggerated innocence. "Just what I said. Maybe you'll get a chance to handle him when we get to the Capitol."

Sin glared at him.

The two hosts of the show went on talking about the tributes and the districts. It wasn't very interesting to Sinthea. She'd seen what she wanted to see, and they had about forty-five minutes before the next Reaping.

"Hey." Bruce interrupted her thoughts. "Ever tried a dragon fruit?"

"A what?" She looked at him strangely.

Bruce laughed. "A dragon fruit. It's that weird thing next to the apples in the front hall of the train. Darcy told me what it was."

"We should try it!" Sinthea nodded.

"Definitely. It sounds vicious, and they say you are what you eat."

"It can't hurt."

They got off the bed and wandered down the train cars until they reached the fruit bowl and found some other strange-looking foods to try. For a while, they sat on the regal couches, looking out at the scenery and figuring out how to eat the unusual assortment.

A TV played in the background, still showing the tributes from Seven.

Bruce looked at the Seven boy and shook his head. "That guy's a beast. I can't believe he's actually young enough. What do you think?"

Sin shook herself from her stupor. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I don't know."

Bruce looked at her, surprised at the tone of her voice, which was suddenly distracted, and laughed softly. "Mmmhmm."

Sinthea narrowed her eyes. "Oi! Shut up!"

She went to slap him, but Darcy appeared out of nowhere and caught her arm. "Ah ah ah! No touching!"

Bruce waited for Darcy to turn away, distracted by something or other, and turned to Sin. Reaching out to touch her nose, he said, "Boop."

Sin shied away. Flashbacks of her time with the gangs flooded her mind. The endless fighting. The occasional abuse at the hands of her own gang. She hated being touched, especially by men. That was her weakness. Her fear. And she hated it.

Her district partner saw an expression he couldn't identify flash through her eyes and immediately regretted his joke. He looked around quickly and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Hey… I bet the next Reaping is starting up. How about we grab some of this stuff and hide out somewhere to go watch?"

Sinthea nodded quickly. "Let's."


	23. Dazzler

**A/N: We're back with another Sin one-shot for you all, written as always by Silzmarilz1701! We hope you enjoy it ;) **

**Thanks to sailorraven34 for the review. We're always touched to see when we grab our readers' emotions!**

* * *

**Dazzler**

**Sinthea Schmidtt of District Six**

**Written by Silzmarilz1701**

* * *

_"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." _\- Charles Caleb Colton

* * *

Sinthea was ushered into a room devoid of colour. It was all white, with a large grey chair in the centre, whitewashed counters around the edges, and a small white table in the corner. There was a single window on the right side of the room, showing the strange beauty of the Capitol through its panes.

Darcy Lewis stood in the corner of the room.

"Your stylist will be here shortly," she told Sinthea.

"Whatever." Sin rolled her eyes, getting comfy on the chair.

Darcy suppressed a groan. Sin smirked at her; she loved getting on Darcy's nerves. The two didn't get along very well, maybe because Sinthea enjoyed ignoring everything she said. Maybe that was it.

Indeed, at that very moment, there came a knock on the door, and in came a woman with blonde hair. However, her most startling feature was the fact that around her eyes were large circles of blue paint. She was dressed in a skin-tight white suit with a high collar.

"Oh my gosh, look at you," the woman squealed as she closed the door behind her, "The daughter of a victor! I'm so privileged!"

"Sinthea, this is Alison Blaire, though most people in the Capitol call her Dazzler," Darcy explained. "She does incredible things with light and gemstones."

"Oh dear god, no," Sinthea groaned. "Don't you DARE put anything sparkly on ME!"

"Oh hush." Darcy glared. "Let Alison work her magic. We'll have you looking presentable in no time!"

Sinthea growled audibly but sat back as Darcy left the room with a smirk. She was sure that Darcy had gotten Dazzler just to annoy her. It would make sense. That was the kind of thing Darcy would do. She was sure of it.

"Now, you're the daughter of the Red Skull—"

"—Tell me something I don't know."

Alison looked slightly hurt, but she covered it up well. Sinthea simply smirked.

"As I was saying," Alison continued, only to be interrupted yet again with Sin's smartass commentary.

"You were talking? I didn't notice."

"Let me just take some measurements," Alison Blaire decided before telling Sinthea to stand up off the chair.

Amazingly, Sinthea did as she was told. She stood for Dazzler and let the woman undress her and take her measurements. It was kind of humiliating, but at the same time, Sinthea didn't care much. She liked her body. She even liked the multitude of freckles that littered her pale face.

"Red. Red is your colour." Alison nodded after taking the measurements. "Ironic, no?"

Sinthea glared. There it was again. Another reminder of her neglecting father. But she had to admit, Alison was right. Not only was red Sin's favourite colour but it also looked really good on her. Red and black. She wondered what Alison Blaire, Dazzler, would put together for her.

"Alright, you can put that robe on." Alison pointed to a white robe that sat on the counter across the room, "Let's do some sketches of what you are to wear."

"Yes, let's," Sin mimicked her.

Alison glared at her, catching Sin off guard.

"You will sit down right here, young lady, and listen to what I tell you if you want to win these Games. The right outfit can mean the difference between sponsors and no sponsors, so you'd best do what I say, understood?"

Sinthea stared at her in surprise. She never would've thought that this Dazzler woman would have the guts to stand up to Sin, the daughter of the Red Skull. This woman had some serious courage. Sinthea got the robe, put it on, and sat down.

"There. Now, was that so hard?"

Sinthea didn't answer, "Let's just see what you draw up, and then I'll make a judgment."

"We want to highlight the fact that you are the daughter of the Red Skull," Alison told her as she got out a sheet of paper and some coloured pencils. "That's your best bet at getting sponsors. People here love that sort of thing, the legacy card. So we need to play that up."

"How so?"

"I'd say shave your head and paint your face red, but I don't think you'd go for that," Alison admitted.

"You are correct."

"So I was thinking, do you have anything of your father's?"

Sinthea thought about the pin that Crossbones had given her. Indeed, she had it in her room, in her dresser drawer. It was about the size of her palm. Maybe Dazzler could use that?

"I do have one thing. It's a pin. It's about this size." She showed Alison her hand. "And it has a large, red skull with black eyes on it."

Alison squealed. "That's perfect! See, what I want to do is make you look like you're ready to fight. Ready to take on the world. Ready to take on the Games."

Alison Blaire began drawing a picture of the outfit. Its bodice made of tight, red body armour. The pin went right where the heart-shaped top cut was. Attached to the bodice were three slits on each side to hold daggers. She placed a black leather choker necklace around the body's neck. The pants were black shiny leather. And finally, she placed large red boots on the drawing's feet that reached all the way up over the knee.

"And a final touch, to make you shine," Alison continued, "Large, red, ruby-covered gloves. But they don't just shine, they'll light on fire when you're waving!"

"They… what?"

"They catch on fire! So you really pop!"

Sinthea looked at her and then at the drawing. She was trying to imagine herself wearing such a getup. But honestly, it looked impressive. Sin was actually willing to give it a try.

"Alright. Fine."

Alison squealed again. Sinthea glared at her. She really needed to stop doing that; honestly, it was rather annoying. Squealing was unbecoming of someone supposedly of Alison's standard. Sinthea was about to tell her so when she realized why the outfit looked so familiar. It was almost an exact replica, with a few tweaks, of the one her dad had been seen wearing in the parade. Sinthea remembered Grandma Scarbo showing her a picture she'd found from a pamphlet released by the Capitol that year.

So she supposed this was all just an imitation game, really. Oh well. She didn't really care one way or the other, as long as she won the Games.


	24. Deadpool and Death

**(A/N): It's a day late, but we thought we might give you a nice little Valentine's Day treat. Canucklehead Cowgirl has returned to give us some Wade Wilson goodness, with the perfect Marvel pairing: Wade/Death.**

**It's pretty much everything you could want out of a Valentine's Day outing with Wade. Death, sass, you name it. ;)**

* * *

**Deadpool and Death**

**Wade Wilson of District One**

**Written by Canucklehead Cowgirl**

* * *

"_Death is the beginning of immortality."_ -Maximilien Robespierre

* * *

"What the hell am I doing here? I thought I was … you know … dead."

"You are. I just thought you could use a little distraction. Your soul hasn't quite crossed over properly, and I think it has to do with one of these … children you knew not long ago in life. Perhaps watching them die will help you."

"Sounds romantic. So it's like a … bring your boy toy to work day? Can I help … you know, unalive a few of these mooks? I can probably swing a mean sickle. I've never done it … and it's no katana … but I could sure try."

"No. You may observe only." Wade grumped, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Nuts."

"You shouldn't even be here, my love," the hooded beauty purred out as she recaptured his attention. "It's not your place to greet these souls as they pass from the living realm to mine."

"Come on, sweetcheeks! Some of these people … they deserve to go, and I wanna see the look on their faces when they realize they bit the big one. I mean … they are takin' up a lot of your time right now, and so what if I'm a little greedy in wanting you all to myself." The previously scarred up boy grinned mischievously at his cosmic mistress. A sly smile graced her features as she finally tipped her head to him in concession.

"Fine, but only since you asked so nicely." He grinned as she led him through the arena. For the most part, it was much like a moonlit lovers' stroll through the dilapidated cityscape, arm in arm with the Lady Death as they traversed from one group to the next.

"What kind of fool do you take me for? I mean, I'm game for just about anything, but the sewers?"

"I am called here," she told him with a playful smirk as she glanced over her shoulder. "Stay close." They descended into the dark, dank sewers – though light was no longer an issue for our intrepid anti-hero. An eerie green glow seemed to light their path as they delved deeper into the darkness.

"Where are we going?"

"Shush."

"I'm just sayin' … kinda kinky to drag me down into a sewer, that's all."

"I said … shush." She turned to face him, and he took half a step back, after having been walking far too close to her. "You must be patient." He stared at her silently for just a moment, but when she turned back around …

"So can I tell you who needs to die next? Because I have some opinions on that." Her shoulders dropped before she simply started walking forward. Wade took just a moment before he bounded behind her, his chin nearly over her shoulder as they continued in the dank, dark tunnels.

The rumbling, echoing sound of talking caused Wade to take pause while the purple-clad goddess continued to stalk forward, undeterred by either the surroundings or the circumstance.

Wade, however, was not yet accustomed to the odd dealings of being between worlds.

"Oh man, did I ever join up with the wrong team," Wade grumbled as they came upon the shirtless pair of Sin and Stark. "This kind of thing would have _never_ happened in the Career pack. Like, ever. Well …. maybe with Robin Hood and _his_ angry redhead when no one was lookin', but -" He watched as the purple robe of Death swept past him and led the way for a very anxious Tony Stark.

"Where ya goin' honey buns? Is it Stark? It's Stark, isn't it? Good. Because that guy is just too cocky for his own good." Death paused and flashed him a smirk, causing him to stumble on his words and fall silent. He followed them at a distance, with Death leading the way.

She seemed to be guiding Tony as they wandered closer and closer to an open door. Then, time seemed to slow as she gently guided Tony's shaking hands … and the sound of blade piercing flesh and bone echoed the dark tunnels around them.

"Holy shit! No flippin' way! Buckethead's daughter? Oh, man … this is too good." He watched as the green glow within the cloak intensified, and in moments, the incorporeal spirit of the startled girl from Nine appeared – but only for a moment.

Her … spirit, or whatever it was, simply seemed to dissipate before Death again turned her attention to him.

"Are you ready for more?"

"Why am I still here? If she … went all smoky … why didn't I?" Wade was unsettled for the first time since he'd started his journey with Lady Death.

"As I told you before, you are … a cosmic abomination. Don't question it, my love. Enjoy it while you can. You too will cross when you're ready. Until then, you can still make use of what you have left." She extended her hand to him and he, for the first time, truly hesitated.

"Do you know how to dance, young man?" she asked as soft music seemed to fill the air around them.

"Uh, no. Not something they taught us."

"That's too bad. You should learn. Even with the powers I yield, there isn't much time left for you to dance, darling." She paused and took his hand, and in a blink, they were no longer in the sewers. Again they were roaming the streets – though this time took them closer to the career group.

"Your soul still has a shape. Normally, after you cross … well," she paused as she guided his hands to her hips "It's complicated. I promise, I'll be gentle."

"Thanks. But gentle isn't on the menu this evening. Let's rock," Wade purred out as he threw himself into his best attempt at a waltz, spinning her closer to the Career pack with every step. Death, it seemed, was enjoying it, though.

"Young man – how forward of you! Keep it up."


	25. Into the Woods

**(A/N): We're glad that everyone enjoyed our Valentines Day Wade surprise (seriously, gotta love Deadpool). And now we're back with another update, featuring once more the darling Kate Bishop and her Young Avengers, written by robbiepoo2341.**

* * *

**Into the Woods**

**Kate Bishop of District Twelve**

**Written by robbiepoo2341**

* * *

"_I got lost, but look what I found." –Irving Berlin_

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Kate jerked awake, looking around frantically to try to find the source of the noise in her room that had scared her out of a particularly awesome dream.

At first, she thought maybe it was the tree next to her bedroom window. She'd made Daddy cut back some of the branches a few months ago after _that night_, but it might have grown back.

So she pushed aside the curtains to glare at her nemesis of a tree, only to stumble back a few steps in astonishment when she saw not a tree but a grinning face in her window.

"_America!"_ she hissed, clutching at her chest. "What are you — "

America just grinned and pointed at the window. Kate sighed and opened it, allowing her friend to climb inside. America had been dangerously hanging from one of the barely-long-enough branches of that tree, so she had to jump to make it, but she got inside okay.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. We're going hunting," America said with a fierce grin.

Kate looked out the window. "America," she said. "The sun's not even up."

"Yeah, so if we get going now, we'll get to the woods just in time for the sunrise. I was thinking we'd go out to this one lake area — lots of animals stop by there for a morning drink and a good bath," America said, pulling on Kate's arm to try to get her to move.

Kate grumbled about "crazy friends" while she struggled to find some good adventuring clothes to wear. She sent America down to the kitchen (because America was always hungry) while she got dressed, and when she got down the hallway, America already had half a roll stuffed in her mouth and was pocketing the other half, waving Kate on impatiently.

"_Rapido_," she hissed at Kate, trying to push her further along.

Kate was slightly more awake now, and she grabbed an apple for herself on her way out the door, munching on it happily as she followed America all the way down the path.

She'd only been with the little band of adventurers for a few months now, and she'd really only just started on the bow and arrow, but she was getting to be decent at it. She could even hit a bulls eye, given ten or twelve tries, and she was close enough to on-target that she could take down larger animals. She left the smaller ones to Nathaniel Richards' traps and to America Chavez's … unorthodox hunting techniques.

America boosted Kate over to the other side of the fence and whispered, "Meet you at the lunch rock."

Kate grinned and nodded, then grabbed her bow and quiver and strapped them on.

They really needed to come up with better names for things. They didn't have a name for their band of merry men, and they didn't have a better name for the huge, flat rock that they used as a table than "lunch rock."

But Kate knew the spot well. She'd spent many an afternoon out there with Eli as he taught her how to fight. She'd spent evenings there with Tommy learning about how to hide from S.W.O.R.D. hovercraft (Tommy could outrun anyone). And she'd spent entire days out there with America, because America liked the woods best out of anyone in their group. Sure, the rest of the team would come out on occasion, but America practically lived beneath those trees.

In fact, Kate was pretty sure America was only sticking around because she wanted to watch out for the kids in their group, especially Billy, who America practically worshipped.

Kate made it to the lunch rock before America did and was surprised to see several rabbits dart out of her way. She didn't usually see animals around this area — they must have come out during the night, thinking it was safe.

Kate grinned. _Now _she could see why America wanted to get up so early. There was _plenty _of game to be found.

America emerged from the trees clutching a knife and wearing a grin, and the two of them made their way as quietly as they could out to the lake.

Sure enough, there was a family of deer, and even — was that a turkey?

Kate strung her bow eagerly, aiming for the big-feathered bird. She'd only had turkey once in her life, when her dad had entertained some really rich Capitolian who was collecting District Twelve odds and ends. Something about a prodigy stylist who was looking to become the next District Twelve Avenger Games stylist when one of their current stylists retired. Seems this kid wanted to get his hands on "authentic District Twelve" stuff, and Daddy was only too glad to sell.

It had been a good deal for everyone, and now Daddy had contacts at the Capitol, which was always helpful.

America glanced over at Kate and grinned when she saw what Kate was aiming for. "Careful, Princess," she said. "Don't miss."

Kate scoffed but didn't say anything back. She was still learning, after all, and it wasn't like she was a perfect shot.

_Twang _went the bow, and Kate let out a sigh of relief when it actually managed to hit home. It wasn't a killing blow, but she'd actually hit the turkey in one wing, so at least it wouldn't be flying off.

But it was _running_.

"_Now _you've done it!" America shouted over at Kate as the other animals, now alerted to danger, took off running and the two girls were forced to leg it after their bird. But America was grinning, clearly enjoying herself.

They spent a good twenty minutes and five arrows chasing it down before America managed to pounce on it. She got pecked in the hands for her troubles, but a few moments later, she broke the bird's neck and stuffed it into her bag.

America was grinning from ear to ear as she wiped the blood onto her pants. "Well," she said. "That was fun."

Kate leaned against a tree, panting. "He get you too bad?"

"Nah." America shook her head. "Just a love peck."

Kate snorted, then looked around, taking in the rest of their surroundings for the first time. "Where are we, anyway?"

America's smile faltered just the slightest bit as the two of them looked around, realizing for the first time that they had probably gone deeper into the woods than they meant to go. "Huh," she said at last.

"I think we came from that way," Kate said, pointing through a clearing in the trees.

America frowned. "Yeah, maybe," she said. Then, she shrugged. "Well, we might as well go exploring, anyway. I'm sure we'll find our way back before long."

* * *

It had to be late afternoon. Kate was starving.

They hadn't managed to find their way back to the lake, and what's more, the trees seemed to be getting thicker. Kate highly doubted that any humans had walked these paths since before Marvel was even a country.

America frowned, looking around. "I'm usually good at knowing where I'm going," she said, pulling nervously on the ends of her hair, which she had cut short recently after some of it got caught in some bushes near the lunch rock. It was finally starting to grow back.

"Think the others are worried about us yet?" Kate asked.

America snorted. "You kidding? With how late I've been getting back lately, they probably won't notice til it's dark outside."

Kate frowned. The thought wasn't exactly comforting.

America sighed. "You got any ideas?"

Kate pursed her lips. "I could climb a tree, see if I can spot the district from here."

"Yeah, and get us caught by a hovercraft?" America asked.

"I'll be careful."

America snorted. "Princess, you've still got a lot to learn."

Kate rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest in what she hoped was an appropriately menacing manner.

Either that had worked or America decided that Kate's climbing idea was the best one they had, because America just sighed and waved her hand at Kate. "Yeah, sure. Go climb a tree."

Kate grinned and scurried up the trunk of the nearest tree that looked like it was even remotely climbable. The trees were all growing so close together that she could even use some of the branches of nearby trees to get herself up above the treetops when the tree she was currently in ran out of places to reach.

It took her about ten minutes to pick her way through until she broke into sunlight. Glaring, blinding, sunlight. She cautiously peeked out over the edge and saw, _way _in the distance, a S.W.O.R.D. hovercraft was flying around the trees. But nothing that looked like a clearing in the massive wave of green.

She climbed back down, solemn-faced. She had almost reached the bottom when one of the branches beneath her gave way, and she tumbled to the ground, scraping her arm in the process. "Ow!"

America busted through some nearby undergrowth. (Kate must have gone a little bit sideways on her way down.) "Well?" she asked, once she was sure Kate wasn't dying.

Kate sucked in air as she looked at her scraped up arm, but it looked better than it felt. "We're so incredibly screwed," she said simply.

* * *

In the end, they decided to head towards the spot where Kate had seen the hovercraft, because those hovercrafts didn't stray _too _far from districts.

"What are we gonna do if we get there and it turns out we've hiked our way all the way to another district?" Kate asked America as they trudged along. They were quickly losing the light, and America wanted to make as much ground as they could before they had to find a place to bunk down for the night.

America laughed. "Don't worry your pretty little head," she said. "It'd take us _days _to get to another district."

"At the rate we're going, I wouldn't be surprised," Kate muttered, rubbing her arm. It was still sore.

America laughed. "I don't know — maybe we should just stay lost?" she said. And it sounded like maybe she'd been thinking that for a long time now.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe we could just live out here, in the woods. It's not like we don't know how. Catch our own food, cook our own meals, never have to go to another Reaping again, never lose another friend — " America stopped suddenly, apparently realizing that she had said too much.

Kate blew out her breath quietly. She knew better than to ask about Cassie. Most of her new friends didn't talk about the blonde, cheerful girl who died in the Avenger Games just a few months ago, but Kate knew that they would often go and leave flowers where she was buried.

And then Kate realized, somewhere in the back of her mind, that today would have been Cassie's birthday.

"You planning on taking Billy and Tommy with us?" Kate asked. "I mean, they're gonna be twelve soon, so they might just get Reaped, and what are you planning on doing then?"

America was quiet.

"What about Eli? Or Teddy? Or even stupid Richards?"

America laughed. "You know Eli wouldn't go anywhere. Kid thinks he's got to have the whole world on his shoulders. You wouldn't know he's only fourteen."

Kate snorted. It was a pretty accurate description of Eli.

"Besides, you know they'll send people out looking for us if we stay missing for too long," Kate said.

"They'll send people out looking for _you_," America corrected Kate gently. "They probably wouldn't even notice I was gone 'til there's a name missing on the roll call at the Reaping next year."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. My dad probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone."

"He will if we stay lost for too long," America pointed out as they climbed over a huge rock. Kate gasped slightly as a spider the size of her foot scuttled away.

"What, scared of spiders?" America teased, some of the light coming back into her gaze.

"_No_," Kate said quickly. Too quickly. Then, with a deep breath, she said, "At least, I'm not scared of the ones that are a size I can squish."

"_Everything's _squishable size, if you hit it hard enough," America shot back, and to prove her point, she jumped down and squished the giant spider beneath her foot.

Kate gagged a bit at the sight of all the spider guts, then shot back, "Yeah, well, not everyone has the ability to kick holes in everything. We're not all super strong, like you are."

America had a mischievous glint in her eyes as she said, "Betcha we could help fix that problem. Give your muscles a little workout."

America pounced before Kate was quite ready, and five minutes later, Kate was pinned underneath America as the bigger girl sat on her, both arms held behind Kate's back.

"I give, I give!" Kate shouted, gasping. America climbed off, and Kate massaged her arms. "One of these days, I'm actually going to win a wrestling match with you," she said, half-threatening, half-hoping.

"Yeah, when I'm like seventy and too old to put up much of a fight," America said with a careless wink.

"Yeah, but I'd be seventy, too," Kate pointed out.

America chuckled. "You're gonna be one of those old people who causes just as much trouble as us kids — wait and see."

"Glad you've got my whole life planned out for me."

"Just you wait. You're gonna have a big wedding that's even better than your sister's, and you're not gonna invite anybody from the merchant's sector except Susan — and everyone will think you're the weirdest rich kid anyone's ever seen."

"And who am I marrying in this pretend world of yours?"

America waved her hand. "Doesn't matter," she said. "He'll probably just be arm candy."

Kate laughed out loud. "You really do have the whole thing planned."

America laughed, too, and the two of them launched into a new discussion as they picked their way through the forest — this time about the plans she had for Billy and Teddy.

* * *

"You sure this is gonna work?" Kate asked.

They were hiding up in a tree, several branches above the ground, and Kate couldn't help but notice that it was a long fall.

America nodded as she finished twisting the remains of Kate's shawl into a rope. "Should work," she said as she tied the rope around Kate's waist and then used the remains to tie herself down. "I mean, as long as you don't sleepwalk."

Kate shook her head, staring down at the tenuous line tying her down.

It was long past nightfall, and the only light they had was the light streaming down from the moon above them. They didn't dare start a fire and risk getting picked up by S.W.O.R.D. hovercraft, so they figured they couldn't get much closer to District Twelve stumbling through the dark.

That left the two of them in the unenviable position of staying the night in the forest.

"If I fall out of this tree during the night and break my neck, I swear I will haunt you for the rest of your life," Kate said, low and threatening.

"Shut up and go to sleep, princess. Or can't you sleep unless you have a soft feather pillow for your delicate head?"

"If I had a soft feather pillow, I'd be throwing it at you right now."

"You could always throw a pinecone."

"Yeah, but if I miss, who knows what I'd be disturbing out there?"

"Good point."

They fell silent, each trying desperately to ignore the creeping sounds of the forest waking up. There was an owl somewhere off to the right and the rustling noises of small animals in the undergrowth. Kate could see, if she looked, the moonlight reflecting off of plenty of eyes down below her, too.

And then she heard the wolf howl.

"_Chavez!_" Kate shouted, just so that America would know she was in trouble. Kate only used her friend's last name when she was _really _mad.

America took only a few seconds to untie herself before she bounded around her branches to sit by Kate, who was higher up in the tree.

"I'm gonna kill you," Kate muttered, glaring at America. "We are so dead. I'm gonna be eaten by a wolf, and no one's ever gonna know, and it's all _your fault_."

"My fault?" America shot back. "If you'd hit that turkey dead on like you were supposed to —"

"I _told _you I'm not very good yet! You've got to give me some time to get used to hunting —"

"You said you'd be running the team in a few months —"

"_You _said you'd teach me how to get good enough to run —"

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

Both girls stopped dead in the middle of their argument.

"Uh-oh," Kate said.

"You were right. We're screwed," America whispered back.

Because there, in front of them, was a single tracker jacker. Not too menacing on its own, but both of them knew from experience that those bugs were never too far from the nest, which meant there had to be one in the treetops nearby.

"Go, go, go!" America shouted, pushing Kate as Kate fumbled with the rope around her waist. They both climbed down the tree — though tumbled down would be a more accurate description — and booked it out of there, not caring which way they went as long as they put some distance between them and the menacing insect.

* * *

Kate woke up because she felt something crawling on her arm.

With a shout, she flung the giant grasshopper off of her arm and then jumped to her feet, shaking herself down to get rid of any other creepy crawlies that might have made their way into her clothes. She shook out a couple ants from her boots and one tiny spider from her hair.

Kate shivered at the thoughts of things with that many legs touching her, then looked over to see that America was still asleep, too. They'd finally collapsed of exhaustion in a tree they'd barely managed to climb with protesting arms after a night spent running from one terrifying noise to the next.

The sun was just starting to rise, though, which meant they had the light on their side now.

"America?" she called out, untying herself and crawling over to her friend.

When Kate reached out to shake America awake, she was rewarded with a loud scream and a swift kick in the shins that sent her tumbling down a couple branches before she grabbed the tree to stop her descent.

"Don't _do _that to me!" America called down to Kate before climbing down to help her friend.

"I could say the same thing!" Kate shouted back as she pulled herself back up so that she could get out of the tree in a much more controlled descent.

"Sorry," America said quickly. She followed Kate down the tree and looked around. "Well," she said. "We survived the night."

"Yeah," Kate said. "Let's not do that again, huh?" She looked around, trying to get her bearings.

And that's when she saw it.

Impossibly, Kate knew where they were. Because there, right in front of her, was a strip of her pink dress, one of the markers she'd left behind as a warning to America and her team that one of Richards' traps was nearby.

America saw the pink marker at about the same time Kate raised her arm to point it out and groaned dramatically. "You've _got _to be kidding me," she said. "We spent the night _this _close to home?"

Kate felt like laughing with relief. "If I'm right," she said, pointing, "the lake should be just over that ridge over there."

America sighed and jerked her head in the direction Kate was pointing. "Well, let's get going then. Wouldn't want to miss whatever lecture Eli's got prepared for us this time about safety or whatever else."

"We probably deserve it," Kate pointed out.

America snorted. "Yeah, but don't ever admit it, right?"


	26. Bread and Beards

**(A/N): Hello again! Here's a little treat for you this Easter weekend: a new one-shot, this time featuring Ororo Munroe, written as always by the talented InDeepDarkWood. This is an even younger Ororo than we've already seen, and features Ororo at time before she was living with her group of misfit kids, in a happier time in her life. ;)**

**A special thanks to sailorraven34 for their review; we're glad you're continuing to love these stories and characters!**

* * *

**Bread and Beards**

**Ororo Munroe of District Eleven**

**Written by InDeepDarkWood**

* * *

"_Love your family. Spend time, be kind &amp; serve one another. Make no room for regrets. Tomorrow is not promised &amp; today is short." _\- Unknown

* * *

"Life wasn't always so hard, O."

Ororo thought that her mother was the most beautiful person in all the district, willowy and strong and kind. She sat on the table top, her legs swinging back and forth slowly, keeping in time with the broad strokes her mother made as she kneaded the dough against the counter. The dough slapped against the rough surface, and Ororo's heel clicked the underside of the table. She liked watching Mama bake when she returned from school. Mama liked to hear stories of what she was learning; sometimes she'd give the little girl stories of her own.

"Abuya wants to know why I don't have to go to the orchards, Mama," she elaborated now, ignoring the words that had been spoken previously, because she didn't think life was so hard, with Mama baking and Pa coming home and swinging her around like a helicarrier, no matter how long his mining shift had been. He would kiss her white hair and smile beneath the grizzled beard that scratched against her cheek and make her giggle.

"Abuya shouldn't be in the orchards anyway," N'Dare replied, the dough slamming down with greater force. "That's a dangerous place, O; you promise me you stay away from them."

"I promise."

"That cousin of yours is gonna get caught up with the Sentinels one day; you better not either. Promise?"

"I promise," she said again, hopping off the table as N'Dare rounded the dough out and gestured her over with a floury finger. Picking up the fork on the counter, Ororo lifted her arms out, her mother hooking her elbows and hauling her up to adult height.

"You make the design for father today," N'Dare offered, the little girl's face scrunching up in thought for a few moments, resting against her mother, before both eyes brightened and she began to scrape a design with the fork, creating the air pockets like her mother had taught and forming them into a crude tree-shape. Once she was satisfied with her creation, she beamed as N'Dare set her down, sticking the fork into her mouth to suck off the raw dough that had clung to its sides.

"_You are not supposed to do that, child_," the elder admonished in soft whistles, snatching the fork away from Ororo, her own eyes twinkling as she licked the metal. "_That is my job!_" Clapping her hands over her mouth, Ororo giggled at her mother's antics, leaping away to avoid an exaggerated toe tap that threatened to land on her bottom. "Out you go and play, O," she continued, switching back to the legal tongue. "Don't go too far, though!" she added as the girl raced off, still laughing.

Ororo burst out of the house, the door swinging behind her on its hinges, and took an immediate handbrake turn, away from the dirty road that led to the settlement, and raced off into the rough grass and sand that made up most of the vegetation of District Eleven. There were very small hills in the district, but if you knew where to look, you could find good vantage points. Ororo ran through the shrubs, the hardy grasses scratching and scraping her lower legs, but she was used to it and barely noticed the sharp little stabs. The grasses grew more sparse the further from the settlement she got, replaced instead by deeper sand and drier air.

Everything was sandy when she got past a certain point behind her house.

Ororo kicked off her shoes, hiding them underneath a cactus, and continued on, her feet floundering in the sand and sinking low as the world began to tilt slightly and the girl began to climb the sand dune. It was in no way large and mighty like the mountains her teacher would teach of, but it was a mammoth task nonetheless to reach the top, and she was hot and sweaty and out of breath when she finally made it to the summit. Flopping down against the sand, the grains of sand rolled under her clothes and into her hair. She took a breath, tasting the grit on the very light wind, and then sat up.

The sand dune let her see for miles and miles and miles around, but most of it was desert and little settlements like where she lived. There were only two things that always caught her interest, no matter what: the large, twisting, hulking mass of a building that was a Sentinel outpost, with the acres and hectares of orchard that sprawled around and around like a maze, a sea of green in the yellow and red of Eleven. That and the dead lands to the opposite side, with the little ant-like people and machinery scurrying around it. If she listened closely, she could hear them yelling, hear the machines rumbling as they descended into the darkness of the mines.

It was one of the newer mines in Eleven; the older ones were closer to the main square, the main town, where her teacher's mountains were. They tunnelled in and around the mountain; Ororo thought they sounded a lot nicer to work in than _her_ mine. She cupped her hand to her ear, tilting her head towards the mine, while at the same time straining her eyes to make out the ant-people better. Her Pa was there, chipping away the dirt and the dust to find some vibranium in places the Capitol hadn't thought there would be vibranium. He didn't like talking to her about the mines. "Ororo," he would say, "Some places are for sadness and some for happiness. Why bring the sad place home?"

Ororo sighed.

She wished he could be happy in all places, like how she was happy in school _and_ at home.

She watched the ant-people for a while, listening for her father's voice, and when it didn't come, she turned her head back to the Sentinel post. That was closer to her dune than the mine, and the people that walked the perimeter she could see wore white. She could hear them sometimes, when the wind blew a certain way; she could hear them calling to each other, hear their dogs barking, hear their orchard men screaming with the lash.

Thieving children were lashed outside the school sometimes. They cried and cried, and Ororo had cried once too when she saw it, but she had never really understood what was happening until she saw the orchard men return home from a lashing propped up by friends. That frightened her far more than her friends getting whacked once or twice. Her Pa had bundled her into a tight hug when she told him what had happened. "I will never let that happen to you," he'd said. "Not everyone is as lucky as you, though. Mind them."

The sun climbed around the sky as Ororo stayed on her sand dune, flinging herself into a reclined position, her arms and legs moving in and out to create shapes in the sand. When that grew tiresome, the girl sprang up from the dune and sprinted down it as fast as she could, her heart leaping around in her chest as the fear of her leg-and-body speed mismatch grew. Then the ground levelled out, and she got a burst of new speed to return to her shoe-hiding place, tapping them against her feet to get rid of the worst of the sand, and looping back towards her house.

She detoured slightly, where the weedy grasses occasionally bloomed flowers, and picked a few purple ones, skipping back onto the dirt road and approaching from the opposite direction. Far above her head, the familiar whirr of a Capitol plane droned; looking up revealed not one but two approaching behind the plane overhead, flanking one of the large, slow-moving helicarriers. Frowning a little, she continued on, hoping that the transporter would avoid passing right overhead; the slow planes were the loudest _and_ took the longest to move on.

She could already smell the newly cooked bread as she reached the house, inhaling deeply as she slowed to a walk. Seeing the door was still open, her face broke into a wide grin, and she found a new burst of energy, flying through the door, clutching the flowers fiercely. She burst into the kitchen, the smell of bread filling her nostrils, Mama turning quickly away from the position she had been locked in with her husband a second ago. Ororo didn't pay any attention to that, leaping towards the bearded man with an exclamation of joy.

"Pa!" Strong arms wrapped her in an embrace, somehow careful enough to avoid crushing the purple flowers while still managing to swing her around the kitchen. Loud bursts of laughter sounded from the girl until the man set her down with a ruffle of hair, and Ororo turned to her mother. "I picked you these, Mama," she said mid-handover of flowers. N'Dare inhaled the faint smell from the flowers.

"They're beautiful, O," she said, filling a jar with water and setting it in front of the centrepiece of their kitchen wall. The flowers didn't quite fit with the large photograph collage that took up near the entirety of the wall, but N'Dare smiled at it anyway. "Two beautiful things from the two most beautiful people," she continued, Ororo giggling as her Pa kissed the older woman. The drone of the helicarrier became louder as its direction of travel became clear, and the girl took advantage of her parents' distraction to break off a piece of the bread and pop it into her mouth, still warm and soft from the griddle.

"_Child, you are not to take bread without asking!_" her mother whistled sharply. Ororo tried to smile, but her mouth was too full of bread to do anything but bulge. "_You are lucky that we love you as much as we –"_ N'Dare broke off as a loud rumble and a bang sounded from outside and shook the house.

Ororo looked up, and her parents looked at each other.

The rumble didn't stop, and the droning noise got louder.

"Bomb?" Mama asked, her voice barely heard above the rumbling. Her parents' eyes met, and her Pa shook his head roughly.

"Just _move_!" he called, yanking Ororo at the elbow and nearly pulling her arm out of her socket as the ground began to shake beneath her. And for two seconds, the world seemed to slow, and she could see the grizzled face of her father twisted in fear, and her mother reaching to grab her other arm, as though it would get her to move quicker, and Ororo wanted to ask what a 'bomb' was and why it was causing their house to shake and why they had to run.

It only slowed for two seconds, though.

On the third second, there was a bright light, and a loud noise, and a scream, and Ororo hit something hard, and something firm landed on top of her, and then everything went black.


	27. Learning to Walk

**(A/N): As we're wrapping things up with the main fic, here is a beautiful little one-shot from Sinthea Schmidtt (boy do we miss her) from way back in the Capitol days!**

**Thanks to all our writers who reviewed. We really couldn't have done any of this without you!**

* * *

**Learning to Walk**

**Sinthea Schmidtt of District Six**

**Written by Silzmarilz1701**

* * *

_"__The best preparation for good work tomorrow is to do good work today."_ \- Elbert Hubbard

* * *

It was about an hour after lunch, and Sinthea was resting in her room. She was dressed in basic black pants and a loose purple silk top. She lay on her bed, staring up at the white ceiling. In her mouth was a lollypop she'd asked for. She'd never had a real Capitol lollypop before. It was good.

Suddenly, there came a knock on her door and she groaned loudly, making a point not to get up and open the door.

"Come on, Sinthea," Dazzler sing-songed, "Come, come!"

"What is it now, Alison?" Sinthea asked, taking the lollypop out of her mouth for a moment.

Alison Blaire smiled on the other side of the door, "We need to teach you how to walk!"

Silence.

"What?" Sinthea asked in confusion after several moments, sitting herself up in bed and pulling on her shoes when she realized she would have to go with the stylist.

Finally, she walked to the door and swung it open, coming face to face with Alison Blaire, Dazzler, her stylist.

"Teach me how to walk?"

Alison nodded in excitement, "It's time you forgot about your sad little district and learned how Capitol citizens, cultured citizens, walk."

"It's just walking," Sinthea protested as she was led by Alison towards the large elevator outside their suite that would take them to the stylist rooms.

"Oh hush." Alison shook her head. "It's very different. After all, you'll be walking in heels!"

Sinthea looked at the picture Alison held up for her to see. On it was her interview outfit. It was a short, black dress with long, black, mesh sleeves; a black, feathery flower for her hair; a red belt with her skull pin; and finally, large, six-inch, stiletto heels.

"You want me to wear that."

"Yeah." Alison nodded enthusiastically. "Less glittery than I'm used to, but I think it's fine the way it is. But we could add—"

"—No. No glitter, Alison."

Alison sighed but nodded. "I figured you'd say that. But come on! It's time to practice!"

They had reached the stylist room for Sinthea and quickly went inside. There were maybe three hours before the interviews began, and Alison Blaire intended for Sin to be ready. She would own the stage. But in order to do that, Sinthea had to know how to walk in heels. In really tall heels, too.

Sinthea saw her outfit ready on a hanger in the corner, minus her skull pin. Dazzler told her to put it on, but without the heels. After all, they had to fit the dress and make sure it was perfect before they even attempted to get her walking in stilettos.

Alison watched her in scrutiny as Sinthea undressed and carefully pulled on the skin-tight black dress. Alison helped her put the red sash belt on, and finally, it was time for the shoes.

"Try not to fall right away," Alison warned her. "Just try to stand still."

Sinthea sat down as Alison carefully put the six-inch, bright red heels onto her feet. Sinthea looked at them skeptically. She wasn't entirely sure such delicate-looking shoes would be able to hold the weight of a person. But then she remembered how Darcy Lewis always wore heels, and that comforted her a little.

Finally, Alison finished with the last strap and held out her hand to Sinthea. Sin, unsure of how to do this, took it. She managed to stand up and not fall over.

"Psh." She laughed. "This is easy enough."

Alison cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Then let's see you walk."

Sinthea took a step forward. And promptly teetered backwards, sideways, and forwards, before having to catch herself on the nearby chair. Alison smirked at her, causing Sin to glare.

"Shut up," she snapped.

"Sorry." Alison laughed. "But it's always entertaining watching tributes learn to walk in heels."

Sinthea growled. "Just help me."

"Very well." Dazzler sighed. "Hold my hand while you take a few steps. Put your heel down first. Take smaller steps than you're used to."

Sinthea hesitantly took a step forward, grasping onto Alison's hand. They made it around the room once, Sinthea holding onto Alison for dear life. They did several laps around the room before Alison let go.

"Keep practicing. I'll be back in a little while," Alison told her, going to the door.

Sinthea nearly fell over in surprise. "Wait, what! You can't just leave!"

"I'm going to go get a camera." Alison teasedlaughed.

Sinthea, furious and not understanding that it was a joke, took off one of her stilettos and chucked it at the door. Alison laughed as she barely closed it in time to escape the projectile. Sin could hear her laughter echoing down the hall She laughed and laughed as she went to go get some coffee in the stylists' lounge that was down the hall. Her shimmery, skin-tight, white body suit glimmered in the lights of the hallway so that every stylist knew she was coming.

Meanwhile, Sinthea was stillback in her room practicing walking. And she stayed that way for nearly two hours, teeteringwalking around in circles, sure she looked like an idiot to the Capitol guards that were no doubt monitoring the room on the security feed. However, afterby the end of the two hours, she had mastered the art of walking in heels. As it turned out, practice really did make perfect.


	28. Alternate Finalé - On Your Knees

**(A/N) Hey guys, just a heads up for those who haven't yet read the In the End, You Always Kneel finale, this chapter will spoil who wins. When I narrowed down the surviving characters to CC's Wolverine and Lili's Cap, I asked both of them to write up a version of the finale where their character emerges victorious. We posted the winning finalé there a few days ago, and now I'm posting the other chapter so that you can all see how things might have gone. As I said when uploading the ITEYAK finalé, choosing between Lili's and Canuckle's chapters was ****not at all**** easy, but ultimately a decision had to be made. However, having to choose between two fantastic chapters is never a bad problem to have – the only pity was that only one person could win.**

**Note One: The meeting with Fury at the end of the official finalé was added in after I made the decision on the Victor, so if **_**this **_**chapter had been the winning one, we'd have seen a similar kind of scene at the end.**

**Note Two: We will be opening up a new forum for applications for a sequel once the epilogue goes up, which should be early next week. Keep an eye on ITEYAK until then if you're interested in applying, and if you know anyone that might enjoy taking part in a collaboration, let them know we'll be looking for people!**

**Note Three: It's been great to see the reviews coming in for our finalé, some championing the Victor, others bewailing the decision, because that's exactly how it should be – if everyone was happy with a single character coming out on top, we wouldn't have done our jobs right. It's been a pleasure to work with such a fantastic team of writers, and hopefully the team we assemble for the sequel will somehow manage to be even better.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Alternate Finalé **—** On Your Knees**

**Night, Day Fourteen**

**Steve Rogers of District Five**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"Life did not stop, and one had to live."_ – Leo Tolstoy, _War and Peace_

* * *

The cannon blast boomed throughout the arena, but Steve stayed where he was.

Kate's hand was limp in his. The arena was silent – enough so that Steve had heard her final breath, the quiet exhalation of air that had left her lifeless body wilting against the broken wall. Steve had never seen death up so close before.

He'd never… Steve had never_ caused_ death like this, either.

Even in the other battles he'd fought in, Steve had never struck the final blow. He'd never had to look down at a tribute's broken body and think, _They're dead because of me._

Until now.

His hands were shaking as Steve pulled them away. One was covered in blood – he hadn't let go of the arrows he'd punched through Kate's chest. That awful rattling in her breath had been because he'd punctured her lungs – and it wasn't hard to imagine how she must have felt, slowly drowning in her own blood. Because of him.

There was a lump in his throat, and Steve was finding it increasingly hard to breathe – but he _had_ to, he had to. Because Steve had looked between himself and a scared, broken little girl… and he'd chosen to kill her so that he could keep living. He'd chosen his own life over the life of another; and he couldn't take that back now.

His eyes were burning as Steve leaned forward, brushing Kate's cheek with his left hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Kate, I'm so sorry." But his fingers came away wet, and not from the blood smearing her mouth and chin – in her last moments, Kate had been crying.

The sight was another solid blow. He'd done this. He'd…

But that was exactly why Steve couldn't pity himself. _He'd done this._ He was in the Avenger Games, and he'd finally killed another person, the way they'd expected him to the whole time. To pity himself now, when he was the one still breathing, was a level that Steve couldn't sink to. He wouldn't turn Kate's death – any of their deaths – into a mockery.

But… it still was, wasn't it? Not of Kate, and not of the other tributes – but of _him._ Steve stared down at Kate – broken, bloody, and lifeless by his hands – and heard the Gamemakers' laughter ringing in his ears. He felt sick.

Kate was – no, had been – just a little girl. When he'd heard her gasp, and turned around… Steve couldn't shake the memory of how she'd looked, standing there. Bloody and battered, but determination drawn in every line of her face despite the growing terror behind her eyes.

She'd just looked so _scared._ If Steve had met her at any other point in the Games, he would have drawn her under his shield and re-bandaged her wounds. He'd have protected her for as long as she'd let him, just as he'd done with the countless other tributes he'd encountered during the Games.

Instead he'd punched three arrows through her chest and let Kate drown in her own blood.

Her words echoed in his mind_. I don't want to die. Please. I don't want to die, Steve._

His throat closed up, and Steve doubled over. The back of his hand was trembling as he pressed it to his mouth, struggling to keep from making a sound as he squeezed his eyes shut. Anguish swelled in his chest even as a bitter self-loathing cut it off at the knees – the emotional whiplash was making him dizzy. _Stop this,_ Steve told himself desperately. _You don't have a right to this grief. _He couldn't cry over the blood on his hands.

Slowly, Steve straightened. The back of his calf ached as he stood, where Kate's arrow had sliced through his skin. He'd need to bandage that before he moved away, but he could almost feel the Gamemakers' growing impatience with him. For a Capitol audience, he'd lingered far too long.

And while a large part of him no longer cared what the Capitol thought, the more rational part reminded him of what the Gamemakers had done previously to encourage the tributes' hasty movement. Ultron, tracker jacker swarms… Steve didn't want to linger and find out what other horrors they kept locked away. He knew he couldn't afford to.

His shield had fallen to the side, just out of arm's reach. Steve's fingers scraped against the cracked bitumen as he wiggled them under its cold edge, flipping the shield up into his grip. The sight of its side was another blow to his chest – the once-shining silver was now grimy and splattered with blood. He lifted his arm, dragging the rust-red material of his jacket across the side, but the blood just streaked across the surface. It was his only weapon.

But as he slung the shield over his arm, wriggling his fingers through the worn straps, Steve's gaze caught on Kate's knife. Somehow, it had gotten loose and fallen – and now glittered on the concrete next to her hip. If only he'd seen it earlier, Steve thought bitterly, he could probably have saved Kate a few seconds of pain.

He hesitated for a long moment before crossing the street back to Kate's side. It felt… disrespectful, almost. To take the weapons that Kate had tried to kill him with and turn them on whoever was left, whether it was Bruce or Logan—

Steve's thoughts stuttered to a stop.

_Logan._ Steve thought of the injuries beaten into Kate's body – the purple handprint, the deep cuts, and the blood-soaked bandages. He thought of the venom in her voice when she'd told him to get out of her way. But more than that, more than any of that – he remembered the searing heat of her rage, burning through her eyes and her voice as she'd tilted her head back and screamed, _"LOGAN!"_

An accusation and a promise. But of what, Steve didn't know. What had Logan done?

Maybe it didn't matter. It was entirely possible that Logan wasn't the one waiting for him, anyway. It could easily be Bruce.

And yet, if it was… Steve had taken Kate's life, but maybe there was one thing that he could still give her.

But before the thought could progress any further, a bright blue bolt erupted from somewhere beyond the park, streaming into the air. Steve stumbled back instinctively and fell, his palms scraping against the ground even as his gaze snapped to follow the bolt of energy. It flew without pause until, slamming into the invisible barrier surrounding the arena, it spread out – crackling blue energy racing all across the sky, like an explosion of lightning above him. The impact made the whole arena shake, the earth itself shuddering underneath him. Steve's breath caught.

It was a signal. It had to be. Steve looked back to where the energy bolt had come from, knowing instinctively where it was – and as he struggled to bring up what he remembered of his first days in the arena, he knew that he was right. The energy bolt had come from the Tesseract.

That was where they wanted him to go, and he hesitated for only a moment before climbing slowly to his feet.

Steve had spent the entirety of the Games running: from the tributes, from the mutts – and from the truth of the arena. He may have volunteered, but Steve had spent all of his time acting as though he had been forced to enter the arena. He'd avoided the hard choices, he'd stuck close to his allies, and above all, he'd kept running.

That was no longer an option. Now, for the first time, Steve had his back to a wall with no way out except the one in front of him. He had to act – but not for the Capitol, not for the entertainment; but for himself and for Kate, and for all the other tributes who had already died.

Steve glanced at the sky and saluted, knowing that a camera would be fixed on his face. Then, the shield hanging heavy on his arm, Steve moved towards the inevitable.

Walking through the arena was like journeying through a ghost town, Steve thought.

He'd avoided this area as much as possible, knowing that the Tesseract would be a centre for tribute activity even as their numbers dwindled. Steve was seeing everything again for the first time after originally passing through them, and – despite the growing weight of expectation and tension in the air – the memories beset him on all sides.

Over there, Steve had left a signal for Carol as he'd led Ororo through the streets. A few kilometres down that street, and he knew that he'd find the apartment building where the trio had first reunited. In that park, he and Ro had caught their first meal. And over there…

Unconsciously, a small smile had curved across his mouth as he thought of his friends. It faded as Steve remembered where he was, and where he was going.

He couldn't afford to be distracted by thoughts of his dead friends now. If he survived, he could mourn them later – and if he didn't… well, Steve would be seeing them soon enough.

Time seemed to stretch, like taffy between his fingers, as Steve made his way through the arena. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath. The empty streets were utterly silent; every footstep was too loud, muffled echoes beating through the dead city. Like the crumbling skyscrapers surrounding Steve belonged to a decaying skeleton, and his journey was slowly waking it up. Every footstep a heartbeat, bringing it back to life.

For all the death it had seen, the arena had never felt more alive.

Finally, he reached the boundary of the city. Steve knew what lay beyond: a small stretch of woodland, and then the clearing with the Tesseract. And then, whoever was still standing between him and his home.

He lifted his head, absentmindedly loosening the straps of his shield so that he could pass it easily between his hands. Kate's knife was tucked in his pocket, but Steve knew the reassurance of having another weapon was mostly mental. The shield had become a part of him. In the final moments – whether that applied to the arena, or to Steve himself – it would be the only thing he could bring himself to use.

Suddenly, Steve's breath caught. The trees had finally parted – the Tesseract loomed ahead, with its unmistakable blue glow. For a second, Steve was thrown back to his first few moments in the arena: the clawing fear in his throat, the rapid beat of his heart. The way his gaze was drawn to the Tesseract, jarringly out of place in the natural landscape. But this time there weren't twenty-three other tributes at his side, ready for a brutal, bloody fight.

This time, there was just one.

"It's you," Steve said, perhaps unnecessarily. Logan was already watching him, expression unreadable.

He'd been waiting for him, though Steve didn't know for how long. Readiness screamed from every tensed muscle in the other boy's body – from his planted feet, and the fists curled behind his arcing claws, to the steady watchfulness in his eyes. Suddenly, Steve was glad that it was Logan – from anyone else, he might have expected trickery. A deceptive tribute, like Loki, might have set up traps around the clearing before he arrived.

But Logan was straightforward and brutal. He would rather fight Steve face to face than pick him off from a distance, and honestly, Steve preferred it this way too.

But Logan still hadn't said anything. Perhaps he didn't think he needed to – perhaps the distance in his eyes was real, and he didn't care that they were seconds from a fight to the death. Perhaps he really wasn't angry.

That was too bad. Steve _was._

"You're not going to say anything?" he asked. His voice was steady, despite the heat flaring up his throat, struggling to spit out with his words. _I'm gonna kill him,_ Kate had growled. But she wasn't here now.

Logan didn't move. For a long second, Steve thought he wasn't going to reply. Then the other boy shifted his weight on the grass, and tilted his head to the side. "Didn't think there was anything worth saying," he answered. "We both know what happens next."

"I know." Again, Kate's words rang in his mind – Steve wondered if it would be like that for the rest of his life; the last words of the children he'd killed constantly repeating in his mind. _Don't pretend this is a fight either of us can walk away from. _Unconsciously, Steve took a step forward. "Are you surprised?" he pressed. "That it's me?"

Logan's expression didn't change, though his eyes followed the movement. "Cap," he said gruffly. "Thought you were too good for murder." Slowly, Logan's gaze dropped – and Steve knew that he was studying the blood smeared across his silver shield. Behind the claws, his fingers curled into fists. "Guess I was wrong."

That wasn't what Steve had been asking. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, glancing away from Logan as his grip tightened unconsciously on the shield's strap. He was close enough now to see the blood smeared on Logan's chin. "No, I—"

"You talk too much," Logan said, and struck.

The claws screeched off the metal shield, and Steve threw himself backwards, his heart pounding. He'd barely reacted in time – a second or two later, and the claws would have torn open his neck.

A flash of silver glinted to his left. Steve whirled, slamming the shield down to intercept the blow. The momentum was there, so he followed through and slammed his right foot into Logan's side. They stumbled away from each other.

Steve pushed his hand against the grass and shoved himself to his feet again, spinning to keep the other tribute in sight. Logan had recovered quickly, too – they eyed each other over the small distance, breathing hard from the rapid struggle. Steve lifted his shield, keeping his chest covered.

Logan was too calm, too collected. He hadn't come to this fight on the heels of his first murder, the way Steve had – and he knew that Kate's death was still affecting him, in the way that Bruce's probably wasn't doing to Logan. Steve was off-balance and emotional, and he knew it could cost him his life if Logan wasn't the same.

He needed to push Logan over the edge. And as much as Steve hated the thought of doing it, of _using_ Kate like that…he knew that he could.

And besides that, a small part of Steve thought that he _should._ He wanted to push, wanted to question – wanted to demand answers for the way that Kate had screamed the other tribute's name at the sky and begged for a chance at vengeance. _What had Logan done to her?_

"I asked you a question," he said lowly, moving to the side. Logan matched him step for step. "Were you surprised when you saw that it was me, ready to fight you?" When Logan's expression revealed nothing, Steve pressed on – "When you saw me instead of Kate?"

Finally, something flickered in his eyes. But the emotion – whatever it had been – was quickly stamped out. "I thought I told you to stop talking," growled Logan.

This time, Steve was waiting for the charge. He stopped Logan's first swing with his shield and ducked the second, spinning on his toes in the dirt to whirl around his back and strike. The side of the shield slammed into Logan's back, knocking him forward. But Logan went with the movement and spun to face him, his foot colliding hard with Steve's side.

Pain burst through his body and Steve gasped under his breath as he hit the ground– he'd kicked the same place where Kate had stabbed him with her arrow. But there was no time to take a breath. Logan was moving to take another swing.

His right hand was still strapped into the shield. In one smooth movement, Steve led it slip slightly and then whipped his arm forward – the shield sailed off his forearm and slammed into Logan's chest, knocking him backwards with a surprised grunt.

Leaping to his feet, Steve chased his shield. It had fallen in the grass, but he knew Logan wouldn't be far behind him. As it came within reach, Steve dived for it – grabbing the edge and flipping it up to cover him as he landed on his knees and pivoted, raising to block the blow he knew was coming.

The strength of Logan's strike made Steve's arms shake, and he gritted his teeth before planting one foot in the dirt and shoving upwards. The movement gave him only breathing room, but Steve needed more. He needed to talk to Logan; to get under his skin and inside his head.

They'd come close to the tree line, and an idea burst in Steve's mind. He acted before it had even fully formed, charging at Logan with as much force as he could muster. The shield slammed into his chest, and then Steve crashed into him. Logan was thrown backwards, his back colliding with one of the trees ringing the clearing. But Steve didn't stop. He kept running, as close as he dared, before bringing up his knee and slamming it as hard as he could into Logan's diaphragm.

All the air was punched out of the other boy and he doubled over. Logan was weak, but he wasn't out of control, not yet, so Steve danced backwards, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knee. Logan wouldn't be out of breath for long, so he spoke quickly, his anger rising with every word. "It should have been her," he told Logan. "She wanted it to be. Kate did everything she could to kill me, because she wanted nothing more than to kill you." Each word was a struggle – Steve felt as out of breath as Logan looked. He kept going, "I don't know why. I don't know what you did."

Logan straightened against the tree, one hand on his lower stomach. He glowered at Steve, his brows drawn together in thick, angry lines. Steve pulled himself to his full height, breathing hard. But before he could continue, Logan spoke lowly. "I didn't do anything."

Incredulity swelled inside Steve like a wave, instantly reached a peak, and _snapped_ into hard, scorching anger. Kate's image was branded on the back of his eyes – the blood, the open wounds, the haphazard bandages. Steve didn't know what Logan had done; but what he _had_ seen was the fire in her eyes, the fury snapping behind her words. "Don't you _dare_ lie to me," he growled.

The heat of his anger lit Steve's skin on fire as he flew towards Logan, shoving the other boy up against the tree before he could recover. The tip of his shield knocked Logan's chin, slamming his head against the tree as Steve yelled wordlessly.

Kate's knife was still in his back pocket. Steve yanked it free with his right hand and cut wildly, twisting his shield aside to reach Logan. Fury turned his vision red, and he felt the metal slice along the bared muscle of Logan's right arm. Logan shouted in pain, red blooming on his skin. But his reaction didn't slow.

Silver raked out of the air. Steve staggered backwards as the claws cut into his right side, tearing deep into his skin. A gasp of pain tumbled past his lips – it _burned_, like nothing he'd felt in the Games, like the metal itself had lit his muscles on fire.

Logan kicked him in the stomach, hard, and Steve fell backwards. His left palm was sticky with blood, pressed against the wound. Already, it was aching – the pain spread up his arm, to his hand; weak inside the shield's straps.

Steve tilted his head back, jaw clenched. Logan's expression was hard. He took a step forward, his fingers curled into fists. The metal claws glittered red.

"Her last word," Steve said, "was your name."

Logan hesitated.

Steve whirled, one foot pushing into the dirt and shoving himself up. His grip tightened on the shield. He stayed low, twisting, twisting – and the shield slammed into Logan's knee with all the force he could muster.

Pain flared in his side. But Steve ignored it, throwing himself at where Logan had fallen. The claws were his most dangerous weapon – Steve had to take them out.

He stamped on Logan's left wrist hard and clamped his hand around the other to keep him pinned. Logan bucked – he wouldn't stay pinned for long, and Steve couldn't hold him. He pushed against Logan's wrist, all his weight on the other boy. His right hand lifted, the shield's shadow falling over them both. And then Steve brought it down.

The shield sheared straight through the metal, cutting Logan's claws into stubs that reached just above his fingertips. Logan yelled wordlessly, shoving against Steve, and Steve was thrown off the other boy, scrambling to his feet with the shield held tightly in front of him.

Logan was just as fast to gain his feet. They were both breathing hard, eyes wide and watchful. He knew that Logan could see the open wound of his side, just as Steve could see the bleeding cut on his arm, and the missing claws.

Logan glanced between him and the claws, abandoned on the grass. He gathered them in his hand and tossed them to the side of the clearing. Then, without breaking eye contact with Steve, he unbuckled what remained of the claws from his left hand, and threw them aside as well. "I don't know what you're talking about," he told him.

Steve hesitated, gaze flicking between the other tribute and where he'd tossed his weapons. He bit his lip. But the decision had already been made – Steve flipped the knife in his grip, watching Logan's gaze fall to it, and then tossed it in the same direction. They were on equal terms. "I killed an innocent girl, who begged me to spare her just so that she could face you herself." His voice was rough, and Logan's expression flickered again at the mention of his old ally. Steve cleared his throat. "So, I'm sorry Logan, but I don't believe you."

Something in his expression changed as Logan tilted his head to the side. His eyes narrowed. He drawled, "Huh. So, that's how you're justifyin' yourself."

Something inside of Steve shattered as he looked at the other boy. He couldn't take his eyes off of him – he'd learned his lesson. But it did nothing to fix the sudden, aching rawness in his chest.

He thought of T'Challa's sacrifice, just seconds into the Games. Or Carol's, his district partner and an eternal weight in his heart. He remembered Ororo and her moods that snapped from sunshine to thunder in heartbeats. The time he'd spent with Bruce and Tony, the duo whose dynamic he still didn't understand. Or Brunhilde, who'd fought by his side against Ultron. Or even Peter, the painfully bright boy who'd lived and died giving his all. Hell, Steve remembered the first time he'd ever seen all the tributes in a room together and wondered if they would die by his hands or if he'd meet his end at theirs.

But most of all, Steve remembered Logan. He thought of fighting by his side against Ultron. Of spending an entire day alone by his side, tracking Cletus through the arena – and then fighting him together, their alliance unquestioned. Logan had been the one to teach him how to build a proper fire, given him hints on where to collect food when they were allied, and stood silently by his side when Steve had needed him to, no questions asked.

There was a large, aching part of Steve that wanted to throw down his shield. He wanted to sink to his knees, bare his neck, and look Logan in the eye to say, _Do it, then._ It had been hard enough to kill Kate, someone he'd barely interacted with throughout the entire Games – how was Steve supposed to kill Logan, one of the tributes he'd trusted and spent the most time with?

But there was someone waiting for Steve back home.

"Yeah, Logan." Steve's voice broke as he looked at the other boy. "It is."

Something widened Logan's eyes – surprise, maybe – but Steve didn't wait to watch it bloom. He'd made his decision to see this fight through to the end, and he couldn't take that back.

The ache in his side had disappeared, adrenaline surging through his body and burning it away. Steve braced one foot against the dirt and surged forward. He threw the shield immediately – it slammed into Logan, knocking him back, and rebounded. Steve leapt up to snatch it out of the air, sliding it back onto his arm as he jumped forward to kick out with both feet.

Logan twisted to the side, and Steve missed, falling and sliding onto the dirt. The other boy swung, but clumsily. Steve knocked the blow aside and jumped back to his feet, turning to face him.

Logan's un-clawed fist caught him in the chest, and Steve faltered, barely missing the follow-up swipe. He kicked out, slamming his booted foot into Logan's knee. Stumbling, his claws raked out, catching Steve across the chest. More blood bloomed across his shirt, but he swung his shield in an automatic backhand. The edge slammed into Logan's jaw, knocking him aside.

They fell apart, gasping. Logan spat blood and glared as Steve gingerly pressed a hand against his chest. He couldn't feel the pain, and he couldn't remember if that was a good or bad sign. But Steve had to keep going.

He swung out with the shield on his left hand, aiming to shove it into Logan's chest. But Logan was ready – he caught the edges of the shield and clung to them firmly, teeth gritted as he stumbled with the force of the blow.

Steve's eyes widened, but it was too late. The claws extended over the shield, and he had to bend backwards to avoid the blades. But his left arm was trapped. Logan lashed out blindly, and they scratched along Steve's forearm. The scream tore out of him as his wrist was slashed, and Steve was forced to his knees.

Logan was twisting the shield backwards. Another second or two, and Steve's shoulder would be wrenched out of its socket as he clung to the shield, his arm trapped. He had to move quickly.

Gritting his teeth, Steve leaned away from Logan, ignoring the growing pain in his shoulder. The other boy was forced to lean further over him, the shield lifting, the gap between it and the ground growing—

Steve held his breath and jumped up, kicking out as hard as he could. His boots slammed into Logan's legs, knocking him completely off-balance. He fell on top of Steve, only the shield between them.

He curled his legs under the shield and shoved hard. Logan was thrown backwards and Steve wasted no time going after him. He clambered on top of the other boy, knees bracketing his chest, and punched him in the face. Steve did it again, and again – feeling Logan's nose break under his fist, his knuckles slick with blood. Logan roared in pain.

Steve pulled his fist back for a final strike, and Logan shot up, smashing his head into Steve's chin. Stunned, he was knocked back and was almost too dazed to raise his shield and block the claws swiping for his face. They screeched along the shield, and Steve's arms shook with the effort of holding the shield strong.

As soon as his head cleared, Steve shoved back. He climbed to his feet, sliding the shield onto his right arm. Logan kicked at him, but Steve blocked it. He swung his shield, and Logan countered with the claws. Every blow was rapid, Steve's heart slamming against his chest at each close call.

Logan swung at Steve's legs, but he missed. Momentum carried him down, his shoulder exposed. Steve's left hand shot out to clamp down on his wrist. And then he twisted, shield arcing down – and slammed it straight into the back of Logan's elbow.

The other boy_ screamed_ as the joint was forced backwards. Steve's heart flipped, but he pulled his arm back and did it again. And again. And again, until Logan's arm was broken, bent the wrong way, and utterly shattered.

Logan threw himself away from Steve, falling on his back in the grass as wet gasps tumbled from his mouth. He was cradling his arm, agony in his face. The claws dangled uselessly from his wrist. His screams echoed through the arena.

Steve took a step forward and Logan swore, swiping instinctively with the claws. "Don't— ah, _fuck_," he began, but it broke off as pain visibly shot through him.

Logan bit his lip, back arching off the ground. Steve couldn't feel the horrific pain he was in, but he could see the bone sticking out of his arm. He could imagine.

"Logan, I'm so sorry," he breathed. Regret washed through him, but Logan shook his head, still struggling with his arm, the broken bones in addition to all the other damage that he had taken from the fights before – the evidence obvious all over his body – was finally taking its toll, and Steve could see that he was struggling to stay upright.

"Don't," he said again, and Steve hesitated.

Time stretched between them as Logan fought to get himself under control. Steve didn't move, the shield dangling limply from his hand and the fight before entirely forgotten. None of it felt real. He couldn't even feel the pain in his side anymore. All he could think of was Logan.

Finally, the other boy glared at him. "What," he gasped, "are you waiting for? Finish it." The words ended in a growl.

Steve didn't want to. God, he didn't want to. This had happened too fast. But there was only one way that this could end now.

He stepped forward and knelt at Logan's side in the grass. His shield was a blunt instrument, and he didn't want to use it. Not for this.

Instead, Steve unbuckled the claws from Logan's wrist. He tried to do it gently, not looking at his shattered elbow, but the minute expressions of pain were enough for him to know that he was hurting Logan. "I'm sorry," he said, again, uselessly. His tongue felt numb.

Suddenly, Logan gripped his wrist with his less-injured hand. Steve's eyes shot to his – they were full of pain and anger, but desperation too. Logan held his gaze. "Do it quick."

Steve nodded, not knowing if his heart was still beating, and raised Logan's claws above his chest. His hands were shaking, and Logan let his head fall back against the grass. His eyes stayed open.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered, again.

And then he drove the claws straight through Logan's chest.

He wished it could have been quick. But it wasn't. There was more resistance than he'd expected, and Steve had to put all his weight on the sharp weapons to shove them through Logan's chest. They cut through him unsteadily, as though unwilling to be used against the boy who'd created and wielded them throughout the entire Games.

Logan's body curled around the claws, and he gasped, but the only change in expression was a grimace. Steady until the end.

Steve's arms were shaking, but he didn't stop until Logan's hand slid off his chest and his face went slack. His eyes were still open – Steve was still watching them – but they were empty. Logan was gone.

The cannon boomed.

Steve fell back onto his knees as the music began to play, blasting throughout the arena. This was unreal. _This isn't happening,_ he thought numbly. Logan's blood coated his fingers – and beneath that, Kate's.

Taneleer Tivan's voice rang out. To Steve, it sounded far-off and quiet. He could barely hear anything beyond the deafening silence in his head. **"Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to present– the Victor of the Twenty-Fourth Annual Avenger Games: Steve Rogers, the tribute from District Five!"**

He killed Logan.

He killed Kate.

Steve survived.

A shadow fell over him, and Steve looked up. It was two S.W.O.R.D. hovercrafts, clawed hands extending down to the two tributes_. One tribute, _Steve corrected himself, and then again with a start _– one victor._

Logan was picked up first, his broken body cradled in the hands of the machine. Then the other craft was reaching down to Steve, and he could already feel the electricity in the air; the current that would glue him to the ship and take him away from the arena. Something fell onto Steve's knee – he glanced down, saw nothing, and then reached up to touch his face. It came away wet, and he realized numbly that his cheeks were slicked with tears.

He'd won. Steve had won the Avenger Games.

But, with the blood drying on his hands and tears streaking his face, it didn't feel like he'd won anything at all.

* * *

The trip back to the Capitol was silent – at least, for Steve.

As soon as he was inside the hovercraft, it began to move. Steve was gently led to what looked like a hospital bed and instructed to sit down. He did, stiffly.

The mattress sank beneath his weight, softer than he could have imagined. It didn't feel right. Steve didn't say a word as the Capitol attendants disappeared one by one, save for a select few that continued bustling around the room. He thought numbly of the crowd that had surrounded him once he'd been lifted from the arena, tensed and ready, their arms instantly locking him in like a cage.

They must have thought that he'd fight back. Perhaps other tributes – no, victors – often did, but they should have expected better from Steve. He'd had enough violence for a lifetime.

While their backs were turned, Steve slid slowly from the bed. His boots were so dirty that they left smears on the metal floor as he walked quietly to the closest window, one hand pressed against the sill as he looked down. It was ice-cold against his palm, but Steve barely noticed. He was too busy watching the arena – the way it seemed to shrink below them, becoming tinier until he could see all of its edges without straining his neck. So much had happened inside that small dome, Steve reflected. It seemed impossible that such bloodshed and violence could possibly have been so contained.

A hand wrapped around his bicep, and Steve startled, throwing himself against the wall as he turned to fight. But it was just an attendant. Her brilliant purple eyes blinked slowly, watching as Steve struggled to calm his racing heart. She lifted her hand again, and this time, Steve understood that she wanted him to follow her.

She may have said something – honestly, Steve didn't know. Everything around him was so surreal, so utterly different to what he'd grown accustomed to in the arena that he no longer knew how to process it. If the world around him was a hurricane of flurrying activity – beeping alerts, the hiss of automated doors, and the quiet chatter of the attendants – than Steve was its eye. Silent and unmoving, the chaos inside him carefully contained.

He sat down when she gestured, offering his arm when she picked up the line to what looked like an IV drip. Steve didn't look away as she slid it into his arm, silently comparing their skin: he was covered in dirt and blood and ripped bandages, to the extent that he wasn't sure how much of his own colouring was actually visible. The attendant's own skin was flawless and clean, glowing under the fluorescent lighting.

Steve lifted his head, about to finally ask a question as she clipped something onto his finger, when he felt the numbness of his tongue. He tried to speak, and the words wouldn't come. Alarm pulsed through him, and Steve tried to leap off the bed, his heartbeat rising. Something started beeping in response and Steve turned wide eyes to the attendant.

His body was going slack. She looked at him blankly and pushed lightly at Steve's chest, until he fell back amongst the cushions. Fear had him by the throat – he'd just gotten _out_ of the arena, what could the Capitol possibly want with him now? – as another attendant, this time male, appeared over the other's shoulder.

Their lips moved, but Steve heard nothing, dizziness sweeping over him. Finally, he was enveloped by the blackness, and Steve thought of nothing at all.

* * *

Steve woke slowly, his head groggy. He was instantly confronted with white walls, their brightness almost painful. Even so, he was grateful for the immediate reminder that he was no longer in the arena. It occurred to him that this could be a trick, one last curveball thrown by the Gamemakers, designed to lull him into a false sense of security before something awful happened.

But that was impossible. Something awful already had – several things; an infinite number of them, really. Steve had only just made it out alive.

Groaning, Steve dragged himself into a sitting position. White sheets slid against his skin, and he looked down, startled by their roughness. But it didn't take him long to realize that they weren't – was anything, in the Capitol? – it was just his skin that was sensitive.

He lifted a hand, oddly entranced by the sight of his own skin. Steve didn't know what they must have done while he was unconscious, but this must have been a small part of it – because his skin was _flawless._ He'd been scrubbed clean, like the memories of caked filth and blood had only existed in his mind. Even the dirt under his nails had been cleaned, his palms and fingers soft and seemingly without callouses. Amused, it occurred to Steve that he probably hasn't been this clean since he was a child.

Gingerly, he slid out of the bed. The white tiles were warm under his bare soles, but Steve barely noticed. He was too surprised by the fact that he hadn't collapsed – surely, after being knocked out by whatever drug they'd used, his body should be weak. But Steve felt stronger than ever.

It didn't take long to explore the room. It was small and white, and… well, really, that summed it up. There were no visible doors or windows. Steve's jaw clenched, but he refused to show his frustration – there could be any number of cameras on him now. And judging by his reception on the hovercraft, the Capitol was expecting their victor to be angry and violent.

There were always a few days between the end of the Games and the presentation of the victor. Steve had assumed that the time was spent beautifying the filthy, half-starved children that walked out of the death traps. Now, he realized that was only half true – the Capitol likely had to devote a certain period to calming and readjusting them, after all the violence and bloodshed they'd suffered through.

But if they expected a violent reaction from Steve, they clearly hadn't been watching him closely enough. He was angry, yes – the familiar heat of it crawled under his skin even now – and likely traumatized; but he'd spilled enough blood. Steve just wanted to go home, and to whoever was still waiting for him there.

Defeated, Steve went and sat back on the bed. The shorts of his white bedclothes bunched around his legs, and surprise swept through him once he saw the smooth skin of his own calf. Kate had stabbed him there – and yet the skin was unbroken; not even a scar remained.

He twisted, feeling over his shoulder for another injury courtesy of the archer girl. Nothing. Steve checked every injury and scar he could think of – from Ultron, from the mutts, from the other tributes, from his own clumsiness – and there was nothing. Just smooth skin. It was unnerving.

Steve didn't know how long he'd been left alone in the room, or for how long he waited. He fell asleep a few times, but there was no way to tell how much time had passed whenever he woke. Each time, the room was the exact same – washed in gentle yellow light, the brightness never wavering.

A couple of times, food appeared in his room. It was always the same: a small amount of rice and some meat on the side, with a glass of water. At first, Steve was disappointed by the paltry fare – but when his stomach felt uncomfortably bloated after just a few bites, he understood. His body had accustomed to the meagre, bland food of the arena. Anything like the rich, decadent Capitol food that he'd had during his training period would likely make him sick.

Steve didn't know how long he stayed inside the room, but it felt like an entire lifetime. But finally, _finally_, a door opened, materializing out of the unbroken wall; and his mentor stepped through.

"Peter," Steve breathed, and shot to his feet. It must have been days since he'd seen another living, breathing person. The other man was standing with his arms wide, and Steve didn't hesitate before stepping into them. It felt like an eternity since he'd last seen the other man, and Steve closed his eyes and buried his head against his chest.

"It's okay, Steve, it's okay," Quill was murmuring, over and over. Steve could feel his palm on the back of his head, crushing Steve to his chest, and felt choked by gratitude. Only another victor could understand him right now, and the tangled mess of emotions tangled in his chest. Steve didn't realize he was shaking until Peter pulled back. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Steve swallowed, not meeting his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't want — I mean, I can't—"

"It's okay, it's okay," Peter interrupted quickly. "You don't have to think about it. Not yet, at least. Just… let's just talk, okay?"

The smaller boy nodded gratefully. "Okay," Steve agreed, ignoring the prickling at the back of his eyes. "I can do that."

"Good." Peter glanced around before clapping Steve's shoulder and leading him out of the room. "Come with me. We don't have that long to get you ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Your live interview with Tivan." Peter Quill shot him a wry look. "Come now, Steve. You didn't think the Games were over just because you won, did you?"

The reminder made Steve dizzy and he had to clutch at Peter's arm. "Don't," he said, suddenly breathless. "Don't remind me."

Peter didn't get a chance to reply before they entered another room – and suddenly, Steve was confronted with the entirety of his stylist team. Mary Jane was the first to run over and capture Steve in a hug, her thin arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Vanessa didn't waste time either, murmuring a quiet, "Welcome back, Steve," before pulling away. Michael too, though he'd been gruff during their training period, greeted Steve with a warm smile.

"Well done, Rogers," he began, one arm around Steve. "I didn't think you'd make it – but I'm sure glad you did."

Steve hesitated, not entirely sure how to respond. "Um, thank you," he said finally. How was he supposed to respond to that?

In all honesty, it was still difficult to accept what was going on. None of it felt real. A large part of Steve was unrelentingly convinced that at any moment, he could really wake up to find that he was back in the arena.

Luckily, Michael didn't let the awkward moment drag on. "Come on, let's get started," he said. "We don't have much time before your interview. Just a few hours, and then you're going live."

"Just a few hours," Steve repeated, frowning slightly. It didn't make sense to him – in the arena, life and death had been separated by the margin of seconds. A 'few hours' where Steve didn't have to worry about what he was going to eat, or where he was going to go, or if he would run into someone who wanted him dead – well, that was an inconceivable luxury.

Peter gave him a sympathetic look, as though he understood the way that Steve was reeling from the simple statement. But he was also willing to waste their allotted time. "Take a seat, Steve," he instructed. "They'll be bringing food soon. But for now, we need to talk about what you're going to say once they put you on that stage."

And so talk they did. It was incredibly difficult for Steve to stay focused on the conversation – maybe he was just out of practice at talking about things that weren't immediately life threatening. But when he said as much to Michael, after receiving his third tap on the chin for not paying attention, the older man sighed, annoyed.

"Well, you're going to have to get _back_ into practice – preferably within the next two hours," he advised, fixing Steve with a firm stare. "The Capitol has seen enough of you being a scared, struggling tribute – now they want to see Steve the victor; confident, at ease, and glowing with success."

Steve struggled to control his incredulous expression. "But I'm none of those things," he argued. Steve wasn't blind, and he could see his own reflection in the shiny table – beneath the Capitol fixes, he was still visibly exhausted and gaunt. He'd lost weight in the arena, and no amount of lamb stew between then and the interview that night could change that.

"Don't worry, Steve." Vanessa fixed him with a cat-like smile, her blue hand extending to pat at his cheek. He knew that she didn't mean it to be condescending, but it was. "It's nothing a little makeup can't fix. And you'll be wearing plenty of that, trust me."

Under the surface, Steve's temper flared._ Can your makeup fix the haunted look in my eyes? _he wanted to ask. _Can your powder brush off the blood on my hands?_

A cautionary hand gripped him by the back of the neck, and Steve leaned back before it got too tight. Peter was watching him with a tight smile, and he knew that none of the other stylists would be able to spot the warning flashing in his expression. "He's just worried about what his girlfriend will think," Peter joked lightly, "now that she can see the real him under all that dirt. Aren't you, Steve?"

His stomach flipped at the mention of Peggy – since, really, whom else could Peter be referring to – but Steve could only manage a grimace. The anger still simmered under his skin, but it wouldn't find a way out through his mouth. Steve couldn't let it. "Right," he bit out.

"Excellent." Peter clapped him on the back, hard enough that Steve jerked forward, and turned back to the folder that he had spread over the table. "Now, back to the interview…"

And on it went. Eventually, the bored stylists left as Steve was forced to sit with Peter for hours, going through his responses to the questions Tivan might ask and the way Steve should present himself. The character Peter was intent on constructing wasn't so different from the one Steve had already played, his first time in that interview chair – honest and stoic, with just enough of his real self-peeking through to keep it from falling flat. Except now, Peter wanted more. Steve was going to be proud, but not arrogant; humble, but not regretting his actions in the arena. Relieved to be going home, but not angry for what he'd suffered through.

That was the point Peter stressed the most. "The Capitol doesn't care about you, Steve," he explained, with more than just a hint of exhaustion in his voice. "They care about Steve Rogers, tribute from District Five. We both know there's a difference. They care about what you did in the arena, who you killed, and who you protected – but not why. They'll pretend they do, for now, and maybe even for your Victory Tour, but it won't last."

"If they won't care about me in a year's time, then what does it matter?" Steve argued. "Maybe they should see that I'm angry, that I'm not just their little 'captain'. Maybe then they won't think that this is okay."

Peter scoffed. "I know you're not stupid enough to really believe that, Steve."

His jaw clenched, and Steve fixed him with a firm stare despite how unsteady he felt on the inside. "I killed _children,_ Peter," he said, and it felt like a confession; as though Peter hadn't been watching his every move for the past two weeks. "That should mean something."

For a moment, some of Peter's frustration faded, replaced with a kind of hollowness in his gaze that Steve instantly disliked. "So did I, kid," he reminded him gently. "If we hadn't, we wouldn't be here. And that's just something you have to live with."

Suddenly, Steve's eyes burned. He fixed his gaze at the table top and swallowed, ignoring his trembling hands. He nodded, not trusting the steadiness of his voice, but – surprisingly – Peter didn't let it go. "I know you don't want to do this, Steve," he continued. "Trust me, I felt the exact same way when they asked me to step out onto that floor and start cracking jokes about the arena. I hated it – and I hated the Capitol. But you know what made it worth it?"

After a long moment, Steve realized that he actually wanted a response. He lifted his head from the table and met Peter's intense gaze, feeling suddenly trapped. "What?" he prompted.

"When I came back the next year, and the Capitol_ loved_ me. They remembered me, and they remembered how I'd made them laugh. So that made it ten times easier for me to talk to them, to gain their trust, and to ask for donations for my tribute."

_Ah._ A stone sank in Steve's stomach – he'd forgotten that, a year from now, he'd be expected to stand at Peter's side and mentor his own tribute. To be responsible for collecting donations and organizing the parachute gifts for them, which could make the difference between their survival or slaughter inside the arena.

"Do you get it now?" Peter asked, and Steve nodded numbly. "Good. So let's go through it one more time."

They did, stopping occasionally for Peter to give Steve quick notes on other aspects of his interview. There would undoubtedly be a recap of the Games, though Peter didn't know what angle they'd be playing from – without knowing what moments he'd have to relive, his best advice was for Steve to try and keep his expression stoic. No matter what he saw, Steve couldn't lose control – and worse than a tribute losing his temper, Peter warned him, would be a victor breaking down in grief. Sadness for his lost allies was one thing, but the Capitol had long since become desensitized to the death of children. Seeing their victor remorseful would be an uncomfortable reminder, and one that Steve couldn't afford if he wanted to keep the audience on his side for the sake of his future tributes.

Eventually, their time was up – and Steve was whisked away by Vanessa and Mary Jane, other stylists flitting into the room to help as Steve got settled into his chair. They talked above him, occasionally shooting down instructions to close his eyes or tilt his head as they covered him in layers of makeup to ensure that he'd look good in front of the camera.

He didn't even have time to look in a mirror before they'd finished and rushed him off to get changed into his outfit. They seemed to be running out of time – certainly, the stylists were rushing as they dressed him and set about making the finishing touches. In all honesty, Steve didn't really know what he was wearing – he'd been stuffed into the suit practically as it was ripped out of its covering. But when Michael and Peter finally walked into the room, they seemed impressed.

"You clean up well, Steven," Michael commented. "I'm surprised."

Peter rolled his eyes at the backhanded compliment and moved forward, trying to straighten Steve's collar before his hand was slapped away by Vanessa. He pulled a face but stepped backwards, out of the way.

Vanessa moved in front of him instead, something hanging from her hands. "Final touches," she told him with a reassuring smile. "Lift your arms."

He did, allowing her to slip the harness around his shoulders. She buckled it quickly, checking the tightness, and then motioned for Mary Jane to step forward.

All the air rushed out of Steve as he realized what she was holding. "Is this…?" he trailed off, not trusting his voice.

Luckily, Peter knew what he was asking. "No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "It's not yours, from the arena. Just a replica. Your old one was vibranium, and well, they really couldn't let you have that on stage no matter how well adjusted you might be. It is technically a weapon, after all – which you proved many times over, I think."

Still, Steve was entranced. The two stylists exchanged delighted looks as Steve stretched a hand forward, tracing his hand over the familiar-looking shape, though this one was made of what seemed to be paper maché. It had a new design – three concentric red and silver circles, with a silver star bordered by a blue circle right at the centre.

An image flashed in his mind: his old shield, the silver metal streaked viciously with blood. Kate's blood.

Steve snatched his hand back.

"I have to wear that on stage?" he asked, glancing between Peter and the stylists. "I… I don't think I can."

Before anyone could reply, Michael scoffed. "Nonsense. Steve, you really have no idea how intertwined that shield and your entire image became – you were the _good_ tribute, the protector. You chose your main _weapon_ to be a _shield_ – did you even realize what kind of message that broadcasted about yourself?" A dull shock was rippling through Steve – was that really how he'd been seen? He hadn't really considered it at all; inside the arena, everything in the outside world faded away. But Michael kept speaking; "A brilliant move on your part, really. I couldn't have coached you better."

"That's not what I—" Steve started, feeling suddenly nauseous, but he was cut off.

"It doesn't matter," Peter interrupted. "Steve, put it on. You don't have to do anything with it – it'll just be enough for the crowd to see it on your back."

Despite the unease twisting in his stomach, Steve relented. He took the shield from the two stylists and slipped it on, feeling the light metal wiring magnetize to the harness. It would keep him from relaxing if he sat down, but then Steve didn't think he'd be comfortable talking to Tivan anyway. If nothing else, the shield would make sure he kept his posture straight.

"Okay, I'm ready," he said finally. "How much longer until the broadcast?"

"Not long," Peter answered. "But we've got enough time to go through the interview one more time. I already feel bad about throwing you to the wolves – the least I can do is make sure you're properly prepared."

* * *

The anthem boomed in the room above, playing behind Tivan's own musical intro, and Steve was uncomfortably reminded of the way that it used to blast across the arena every night before the faces of the dead tributes were displayed. He shifted his weight but was careful to keep his expression schooled and carefully neutral. When the metal plate beneath him rose to reveal Steve to the audience, he'd be instantly on camera – any hint of unease would be picked up.

The introductions continued, Tivan's voice muffled through the barrier between them. From what Steve could hear, the stylists entered the stage first, followed by Michael and then Peter. Their presence was mostly to reinforce the idea that, while Steve had survived, the accomplishment was not his alone – the tribute from District Five couldn't possibly have become victor without the help of the Capitol, through the stylists and his mentors. Very few questions would be directed towards them; just enough for the audience to be reminded of their presence.

Suddenly, Steve's plate shifted beneath him. The shining stage lights instantly blinded him, but he knew better than to shade his eyes. Instead, Steve gave the cameras his warmest smile, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other waving at the crowd. Tivan greeted him, his dazzling smile almost blinding as he shook Steve's hand and introduced him to the crowd. The audience screamed, stamping their feet and cheering his name.

It was dizzying, and Steve was almost relieved when Tivan directed him towards his seat. A single, ornate chair awaited him – but before he sat, Tivan made him spin to show off his outfit to the crowd.

Steve knew exactly what he looked like – he'd been allowed a quick glimpse in the mirror before being rushed to the correct position beneath the stage. His blonde hair was swept up and away from his forehead, with the makeup emphasizing the lines of his cheekbones and jawline – made all the more sharp by the weight he'd lost in the arena. But his eyelashes were long and dark, his gaze all the more intense. The effect was emphasized by his outfit: a stiff blue uniform to match his shield, with red and white accents across his torso – and of course, the ever-present silver star over his chest. He looked like a soldier, like the defender and protector the Capitol had come to expect.

And of course, once they saw the shield strapped across his shoulders, they went wild.

Tivan's grin seemed to stretch from ear to ear as he applauded and made noises of approval. Once the crowd had quieted enough for him to speak, he was quick to shower praise on Vanessa and Mary Jane. "Wow! Incredible, just amazing! Well, I think we need to give a big round of applause to Steve's two stylists – what an_ excellent_ outfit, I think we can all agree!"

Steve smiled tightly, feeling slightly confronted in the face of Tivan's relentless excitement. He sat as soon as he was allowed, though the shield kept him from leaning his weight against the back of the chair. Tivan kept talking and cracking jokes – fortunately, it didn't seem as though Steve was expected to speak just yet – before finally, he too settled down.

The lights started to dim, and Steve's stomach flipped. He knew what was coming: the recap of the Games. Typically, they lasted over three hours – and somehow, Steve had to keep his expression pleasant throughout every second.

The opening music played, and there were so many cameras pointed at his face that Steve's cheeks flushed. He was grateful for the dimmed lights, glancing once at the screen where his reactions would be consistently broadcasted before turning his attention to the screen.

The first half hour was easy enough to watch. It focused on the lead-up to the Games; the Reaping, the chariot rides, the interviews. Then the Games began, and Steve started to pay attention.

The bloodbath had been just as brutal as he'd imagined, and Steve was suddenly glad that he hadn't stuck around. There had been so much death. But that was old news to the Capitol, who'd watched it all live. The video showed the gruesome deaths, and the narrow escapes – including his rescue of Ororo, and T'Challa's sacrifice – before focusing on Steve's journey.

Peter had already warned him that they would focus on Steve; pick a narrative of his time in the arena and edit it accordingly. It was easy to see what they'd decided on, for him: the story of the leader, the protector, and the defender who brought other tributes under his wing.

Steve knew the truth. He'd been lonely and terrified, and the other tributes had made his time in the arena a little more bearable. They'd made it easy to forget that they were in the middle of a death match. And yes, Steve had cared about them deeply – but they were dead now, and seeing their faces on the screen was almost unbearable.

The audience hushed at several points, murmuring, and Steve knew that it was in reaction to the pain in his eyes. He'd promised Peter that he wouldn't get emotional, but it was impossible. On the screen, he was laughing with Ro and Carol as they'd prepared their food. The simple sight made his chest hurt, but he fought to keep himself under control.

He managed to do so for the next hour, his expression calm and controlled – even as Steve was forced to relive Carol's death. He hadn't seen it in detail back then, but now, Steve couldn't bear to look away. The fierce defiance in her eyes filled him with pride.

The other tributes deaths took him by surprise, too. It was confronting for Steve to finally see what had been going on in the other parts of the arena – compared to the Career pack, his own journey seemed almost uneventful. Mentally aligning the events made him incredibly grateful that he'd kept to himself and kept away from other tributes for as long as possible. Seeing the violence and gore from a screen was enough.

After Carol's death, the cracks in his and Ro's alliance started to show. Steve hung his head, ashamed of his own stubbornness that had driven her away – especially as his stomach sank, knowing what was coming. He watched himself run through the streets, ignoring the oncoming storm, to chase after her. Then there was the alliance with Bruce and Tony, swiftly joined by Logan and Brunhilde – and the battle against Ultron, the Capitol's mutt.

Steve wasn't ashamed to admit that fear still shot through him at the thought of the giant, seemingly sentient robot. He had no idea how they'd made it through that fight alive – even watching it a second time, it seemed more luck than skill.

And then, of course, Steve saw Ororo die.

It was traumatizing. There were no other words. Steve couldn't tear his eyes from the screen as he watched the little girl he'd fought so hard to protect, terrified and alone – _she should never have trusted Loki,_ Steve thought, devastated. The other boy was far too cruel.

**"Are you playing a game, Loki?"** On-screen, Ro wriggled her fingers through the gaps in the door. Steve couldn't watch. He buried his head in his hands, eyes stinging.

And then he heard Cletus laugh.

Despite all of his instincts telling him not to watch, not to do this to himself – Steve pulled his hands away. His heart seemed to shrink, but he couldn't turn away.

Cletus's taunts and Ororo's screams filled the room. The audience was utterly silent. Perhaps out of horror, or respect for Steve. He didn't know when he'd started crying, but he could feel the tears crawling down the back of his hand, where it was clamped over his mouth to keep from making a sound. His throat ached.

And then, in her final moments, Ro screamed out his name. **"Steve! Steve, I'm sorry! Help! Steve!"**

_I can't do this,_ Steve thought, but he was frozen to his seat. He felt dizzy, like the world was sliding sideways around him. The little girl was crying and screaming, and Steve knew that he wouldn't forget this sight for the rest of his life. While he'd been resting and relaxing with his allies, Ororo had been terrified and in pain. She'd screamed out for him to help her, and he'd been miles away. Steve had let her down.

When the screaming finally faded, Steve ducked his head into his hands again to take a shaky breath. Peter had warned him not to cry, not to show emotion – and yet here he was, baring his soul in front of the entire nation. Steve wiped his cheeks without making any attempt at subtlety, trying to blink the remaining wetness from his eyes. But the raw ache in his chest wouldn't abate, and Steve didn't think it would for a long time.

In comparison to the agony of watching his longest ally, and his friend, suffer an excruciating death at the hands of a madman… well, the rest of it was easy. Steve couldn't help the swell of anger inside his chest when he watched his allies hunt down Cletus, and end him – but the satisfaction was muted when he remembered exactly how Peter died.

The attack of the tracker jackers was brushed over – Steve guessed that it didn't seem quite as disorienting when the audience didn't know what the tributes were seeing. But he still watched as Logan killed Kurt and the tributes split, racing through the trees in a panicked escape.

They were getting closer to the end of the Games. Steve watched as the tributes received their parachutes, finally understanding what they all had seen. He still didn't know how much of his own message was true – it had seemed _so real_, and a part of him was terrified to find out the answer. To find out if his best friend was still alive. Steve didn't know if he could handle Bucky's death a second time.

The tributes' numbers continued to drop. Steve couldn't feel anything but a sick sense of satisfaction as he watched Elektra kill Loki – he knew that he shouldn't, but Ororo's terrified screams still echoed in his ears. He'd never forgive the other tribute for what he'd done to her. Then came Peter's death, after the night he'd spent with Steve and Tony – and Steve was grateful that the boy had been allowed at least one more night of peace and safety before the end.

Then Kate killed Elektra, and Logan punched his claws through Tony's heart. Finally, Bruce – kind, soft, intelligent Bruce – was killed at Logan's hand, and Kate was all that stood between the final fight.

The fight was awful. Steve could barely watch it. Watching the entire Games over such a short period had only made the deterioration of the tributes more obvious – the fight that had seemed so desperate and brutal in the moment only now revealed how weak they had been, how exhausted and broken. But worse than that was the way the Gamemakers had edited it: instead of the tragedy Steve had felt, it was depicted as his pivotal turning point just moments before the end. The defender had finally turned into a soldier, accepting his mission, and killed Kate when she got in his way. Even Steve's salute, intended as a promise to the _tributes_ to not waste their deaths, had been turned into a mockery: the loyal future-victor already confident about his certain success. It made Steve feel sick.

And then finally, it was just him and Logan.

The music swelled, Steve's heart racing to keep time with the beat. The Gamemakers had cut the audio of their talk, letting the seeming majesty and significance of the fight speak for itself. But the way it was presented made Steve feel even more disgusted.

It looked like he was toying with Logan, already self-assured in his imminent victory: every inch the picture of a perfect soldier, bred for and by the Capitol influence. The pace of their fight – the intense, swift hand-to-hand followed by long stretches as they caught their breath – only served to reinforce that impression. But Steve remembered what he had really felt.

The fight with Logan had been the most terrifying of his life. Everything on the line, against someone he'd have easily called a friend. They'd surged together and then pulled apart, their brutality eclipsed only by their exhaustion and weakness on the heels of a fortnight spent with malnutrition, little sleep, and constant fear.

Even Logan's death was a perversion of the truth, and Steve wanted to walk away. But he couldn't. He's forced to watch himself pry Logan's own weapon from his hand and turn it on him – a humiliating end to reinforce Steve's own superiority, his own success. As though Logan had never stood a chance, and Steve's win was predetermined all along.

Steve wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to turn away and walk off-stage. Logan had been his _friend_, and he'd done his best to give him a merciful, quick death. But the Capitol turned it ugly.

By the time Steve returned to himself, the audience was on their feet and applauding. It took him a moment to realize that it was for him – awkwardly, Steve rose to his feet and bowed. The cheers only surged at his perceived humility, and it took a few minutes for the crowd to quiet.

Then, the interview began. Luckily, there weren't many questions – and Peter had prepared Steve for most of them. There were the typical ones, specific questions about how he'd felt in the arena, what his thought processes had been, and if he'd known all along that he would win. Steve answered as honestly as he could, careful to flash the crowd a self-deprecating smile every now and again.

The Capitol audience loved it – loved _him._ Steve wished he could share the sentiment.

Finally, blessedly, the interview wrapped up. Tivan finished by congratulating him once again, and promising to look for him amongst the mentors next year. Steve smiled, thanking Tivan for his kind words, and the crowd for their unfailing support of him inside the arena. The interview ended with Steve bowing towards the crowd before being led off-stage. Their cheers followed him the whole way.

* * *

Of course, Steve's time in the Capitol was far from over.

There were a hundred events to attend: such as the victory banquet, where he sat as the guest of honour. Worse was the presentation ceremony, where he had to look President Thanos in the eye and thank him for the opportunity to prove his worth to the Capitol. The words were like ash on his tongue, and Steve clenched his fist to keep from physically assaulting the other man when he smiled benevolently.

It was over a week since he'd won the Avenger Games before Steve was finally allowed to board the train back to District Five. He was going back with more possessions and gifts than he thought could fit inside his house – but then, Steve supposed, he'd be living in a new house now. One of the empty homes in the Victor's Village would be his as soon as he returned.

Steve had waited so long to go back home. It was a reality that he didn't think he'd ever get to live – both a comforting daydream during his time in the arena, and a taunting reminder. He'd be seeing his mother again, as well as Peggy – and maybe Bucky. He still didn't have the courage to ask about him yet.

Movement caught his eye, and Steve glanced up. Peter shot him a small smile, settling in the seat opposite Steve. Beneath them both, the train rocked smoothly, a soothing counterpoint to the unease in Steve's stomach. "Nervous about going home?" Peter asked.

Steve stared down at his hands. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. It took him a moment to find the courage to look Peter in the eye. "I don't know what they'll think of me, after seeing what I did in the arena – and even during the interview, afterwards. I don't even know what I think of myself anymore."

Peter shrugged, unconcerned. "They'll understand. And if they don't, they can eventually; you just need to explain it to them. The only way to survive in the Capitol is to adapt." Suddenly, he barked with laughter, "Sometimes I think it's more dangerous than the arena."

Despite himself, the corner of Steve's mouth lifted. "I think I'd agree with that," he replied. But his mood was quick to sober as his thoughts turned homeward again; he didn't know who or what was waiting for him. When he thought of the message he'd received in the arena, his heart twisted – he still didn't know if that had been real, or an attempt at manipulation. Steve didn't know if his friend was dead, and it might kill him to find out. He sighed, the sound laden with worry. "The way I acted," Steve began slowly, "it wasn't real, and it wasn't me. I'm worried my family might be disappointed in me for trying so hard to win the Capitol's approval, even after I'd already won."

"You did what you had to, Steve," Peter reminded him. "The Games aren't over once you leave the arena. They don't end until you're home – _after_ the Victory Tour," he added, with a flicker of amusement.

Steve glanced down, smoothing out his pants. The fabric was expensive, and he looked good – he had to, since the Capitol would be filming his reception in District Five. He'd probably cry again. "I know," he replied. "But it still feels dishonest, I guess. I was so angry, but I kept playing nice with them. I still am, really." Suddenly, he was struck by an uncomfortable thought, and Steve had to take a deep breath as he added, "It feels like submitting, you know? Like giving in to them."

That, more than anything else he'd said, made Peter laugh. But there was an edge of bitterness to it as his mentor turned to stare out the window, knuckles going white around the armrests. "Don't you know, Steve? This is _all_ just a way to keep the districts in line; to keep them quiet and in submission. They want to keep us on our knees – and sometimes we feel angry, and we want to rebel…" Peter took a deep breath, his jaw tensing as he shook his head in disgust and met Steve's gaze. "But the Capitol is too strong. In the end, we always kneel."


	29. Detective Work

**(A/N): Well, it's been some time since we've posted here, but with "When Blood Calls for Blood" now trucking along beautifully, we thought it was time to bring back the side stories. After all, there's a whole new DC universe of characters to play with here too.**

**This first story features Bruce Wayne, and we specifically timed its release to be after the District Seven Reaping, which we'd highly recommend reading. It's a peek into what the great Bat was doing during last year's Games...**

* * *

**Detective Work**

**Bruce Wayne of District Seven **

**24th Avenger Games POV**

**By Canucklehead Cowgirl **

**with assistance from robbiepoo2341, and Miran Anders for their lovely tribs**

* * *

"_I let a good many mistakes show through when I was fixing my sensations. It will always be the same, and this is what makes me despair." - Claude Monet_

* * *

The morning of the twenty-fourth Reaping had been rainy. At least, it was when Bruce had gotten up with the sun — or when the sun should have appeared. He made his way downstairs to take his tea and watch the rain fall outside. The windows in the breakfast nook were open, letting in the refreshing scent of rain as it washed over the pines that grew so thick and tall around District Seven. Nothing smelled better than the wet forest in a good rain on the breeze. It was almost cleansing in and of itself.

It wasn't long before Dick and Helena made their way down the stairs, though both had been sure to dress as Alfred had prepared them for the Reaping. It was a hair-raising kind of affair for Bruce, even though he never thought his two children would be drawn. The chances of that being the case were astronomical. Never had there been a reason for them to enter their names for more tesserae. In fact, it was the Wayne practice to donate the amount of their tesserae to the orphanage, so the very idea that one of his children could go into the Games was … well. It was ridiculous.

The two Wayne children hesitated at the door for a moment, though it didn't last long as Dick bounded out into the gently falling sprinkles, his arms outstretched and his face tilted skyward. "Come on in, Hel, the water's fine!"

Bruce had to smirk as he watched the two of them making their way to the town square. He had time, of course. The kids always had to gather up long before they actually began. But when Bruce finally headed out with Alfred, both men were carrying umbrellas in spite of the fact that the rain really was light.

The walk was quiet for Bruce and Alfred, and when they got to the square, they went to stand under the big eave of the office Bruce had in town. It was, traditionally, where he and Old Man Howlett would glare across the square at each other, their feud longstanding since…well. Forever, really. But it had only gotten heated after John Howlett had been murdered. Bruce shook his head and folded his umbrella as he leaned against the dry storefront. The last thing he wanted to do today was think about the damned Howlett family.

He looked out, not surprised in the least to find Dick still enjoying the rain. He was smiling, at least. The square was nearly filled up; they would be starting any moment. He shook his head when he saw the state of all the gathered kids. All of them were soaking wet and shivering. He couldn't remember a Reaping that had taken place on such a wet day. The last of the kids were checking in, and he couldn't say that he knew any of them. Most of the last ones in were the oldest kids in the district. Those that were out in the woods working already.

Movement on the large stage drew his attention for a moment as the previous victors stepped out, joined as always by their escort, Moira MacTaggert, and the mayor, Jean-Paul Baubier. There wasn't anything about either of them that was particularly unpleasant, and Bruce had been in many long conversations with Baubier to know that the man abhorred the Games nearly as much as the residents did. But he still had his job to attend to, and this was one of the most public parts of it.

As Baubier took to the microphone to start the Capitol-required speech, a large crack of thunder split the air, and the skies opened up in a total downpour.

"That's just lovely," Alfred muttered, almost unheard, though Bruce had to smirk as he focused on Dick, who was grinning and laughing. He very clearly read the boy's lips as he went on about how there really was no point wearing the stupid monkey suit when a suit looked just as wet as all the other ponchos, no matter what name was on the label.

"I do think this is the most entertaining speech we've been treated to so far," Alfred said quietly, the only sound discernable being the pounding rain overpowering anything going through the speakers.

When the rain let up, MacTaggert took to the stage, looking incredibly wary of the weather — as if the lightning was going to be attracted to the microphone stand — though she announced the girl's name quickly. Bruce watched, relieved when he didn't recognize the girl or the name in the least. He let out a little bit of a breath and searched the crowd for Helena, reassuring himself that all was well when he saw her making the most of her soggy situation — and looking more like her mother with her hair plastered to her head than she had any right to.

When Moira spoke again, he found his focus on her once more, watching intently, and positively holding his breath when he read the name from her lips as the thunder covered it completely. He froze, searching the boys section to find him.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred said with a note of panic in his voice until Moira's second announcement was made.

"_James Howlett?"_

Alfred let out part of a breath, but Bruce was still in shock, watching as the stocky young man moved through the parting crowd. His nerves didn't drop back in the least as young Howlett took the stage.

He watched as James took his place, arms crossed and glaring hard at no one in particular as Beaubier read out the Treaty. Bruce couldn't help but glance over to Old Man Howlett, old anger starting to fire up anew after all these years. Bruce knew the story — he'd investigated what had happened to John Howlett right alongside Jim Gordon. He knew how the old man had kicked the boy and his mother into the snow, and how after she'd done herself in, he kept his hard line and refused to even speak to the boy — instead throwing his weight around to make sure no one else gave the kid a moment of comfort either.

But he wasn't expecting the old man to look so…shocked and devastated himself. James however… clearly had no room for emotion when it came to the old man as he glared hard his way until the old man finally turned from the crowd and simply left.

Bruce watched him go — sure that he was headed to the Justice Building, but when he caught sight of him instead rushing down the road the other direction, his blood began to boil. It took all this time, but Old Man Howlett was finally getting what he wanted. James was going into the _Games._ And with Victor Creed or Groot for a mentor, his chances of making it out alive were next to nothing.

He was livid. He didn't know what to do first. He wanted to ream out the old man. He wanted to talk to Director Fury. He wanted to tell James… what? He deflated for a moment. The kid didn't know him from Adam anymore.

By the time Helena and Dick had made their way over to where Bruce was very quietly running scenarios through in his head, it was clear to those that knew him best that something was wrong.

"Aww man," Dick said, shaking his head when he saw the look on Bruce's face. "What's got you twisted? Was it Mac, because I told him—" He was cut off when Helena elbowed him in the ribs with a sharp look and then shrugged openly. "Seriously, Bruce. What's with the long face? I thought you _liked _the dark and damp."

Helena elbowed Dick a bit more emphatically and took a step forward, more concerned than Dick was confused. "Dad?"

Bruce was trying to decide the best course of action still, when he realized that neither Helena or Dick had any idea what it was that had him off his game. He started to try to explain, but he just didn't have time for that. Not…he had to make a choice. The old man or the teenager. "Alfred …"

"On it, sir," Alfred said quietly before Bruce headed toward the Justice Building and Alfred quietly started to explain what it was that had their father so worked up.

Gordon was there to catch Bruce as he tried to find a way in to talk to James — but he met resistance right off the bat. The local Sentinels knew well enough about the feud between Howlett and Wayne, and weren't about to let anyone in unless they had an actual connection to the kid. Something that Bruce was unable to do, though he tried.

But one thing led to another, and though his explanations weren't enough for the Capitol Sentinels that had come in that day, Gordon was a little easier, and he finally managed to talk his way in. Unfortunately, by the time that Bruce had finally gotten through the security, all he saw was the flash of cameras and for an instant James' back as the entourage boarded the train.

He was too late. Again.

As he stormed out of the Justice Building, he very nearly ran head first into the Old Man. "I missed him, didn't I?" Howlett said in almost a daze.

Bruce's anger flared. "You missed him _eight years ago _when you left him to die then stopped _me _from taking him," Bruce snarled out. "_And you've missed him every day since_." He glared at Howlett and looked ready to start something, but before he could, out of nowhere, Alfred seemed to appear, only to redirect him away from Howlett. Away from the Sentinels that didn't _know _what the problem was. Away, even, from Jim Gordon.

And all of it was stopped with a soft, "Master Bruce" from Alfred that seemed to bring the man back to his usual unflappable self.

It was still raining as the two of them made their way up to Wayne Manor, though Bruce silently fumed the entire way and Alfred didn't bring up what had happened in the Justice Building.

Helena and Dick were both at the foot of the stairs when Bruce and Alfred returned, eager to know what had happened while they were getting dried off and into clean clothes — though it was obvious that the two of them had been talking until moments before their arrival. If they were waiting for their father to speak to them, they were sadly disappointed, as Bruce went directly to his study, closing the door behind him.

Once he was alone, Bruce took a moment, his eyes closed as he leaned against the locked double doors. He didn't know if he had any sway at all, but he was going to try. With an honest decision in mind, Bruce took the handful of long strides to his desk, where, in the bottom drawer, was a direct line to an old friend. He just hoped that Nick Fury wasn't going to forget all the help that he'd given him years ago.

* * *

For the first time in Bruce's memory, he found himself watching the broadcasts of the Games in his office, alone more often than not. Fury had not been as helpful as he would have liked — even going so far as to advise him that if he wanted to sponsor the boy, he had only to set up something with Victor Creed, who of course, had decided to take James as his tribute.

As if Creed would ever help anyone but himself.

Bruce had never before been able to watch the glorified executions in the past. But he found himself frowning hard as the talking heads glossed over one tribute or another to focus on their picks to win.

The main focus was on the famous and rich, of course. Stark and the 'legacy' tributes, as they were being called. The others seemed to be passed over, and it was frustrating to watch. He needed to know what the boy's strengths and weaknesses were. How else was he going to help unless he knew?

All at once, Bruce was angry again. He should have done more. He should have at least gotten to know the boy. But now… now it was just a matter of making the right gestures to the right people and hoping like hell that something stuck.

He watched the parade alone, though he had to admit, the boy representing Seven looked much more formidable in clothes that fit him closer. Suddenly, the commentary on the screen changed a bit — they were paying attention to him. He _looked _impressive. And savage. The glare James was directing at Thanos… well, that just reeked of trouble.

Bruce crossed his arms and sat back. Perhaps James wasn't a hopeless case after all. Unless, of course, he managed to catch Thanos' eye with all the death stares he was throwing out. But it was enough for Bruce to take a moment and begin to reassess. He didn't know the young man anymore — that much he had expected, but he never thought it would be so starkly apparent — but he could start anew _now_.

* * *

With his fingers tented under his chin, Bruce made a decision. It was too late to know James personally, but that didn't mean he was an unknown in the district.

He got up and headed for Gordon's place. He knew that the old man had pushed to draw a line in the sand. He knew that few people were close to the dark, brooding young man known to most as 'Logan'.

He frowned at the name. James certainly looked like Tom Logan. But did he act like him too? Gordon would be his best resource to find out. If he was like Tom, he'd have a record a mile long by now, even at his young age.

"Legally speaking, the boy's trouble," Gordon said once he and Bruce were seated in his office. "He fights a lot, public intoxication — though I'd wager that's the case more often than not when he's not in town for it to be _public._"

Bruce frowned slightly deeper, though externally he kept a neutral expression, his fingers crossed as they rested in his lap. "That's too bad," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"But off the record…" Gordon said in a more hushed tone. "It's not as bad as it looks on paper. The fights he's gotten into, when it hasn't been for _money_… he tries to do the right thing. Just… in a less than legal way."

"How so?" Bruce asked, his interest piqued. It wasn't often that Gordon took a stance like that, even privately.

"He just seems to find trouble, or it finds him," Gordon replied. "You remember that Gibney kid that was causing so much trouble last fall?"

Bruce nodded and leaned forward. The lanky blonde had been on a bit of a spree, raising hell and somehow managing to get away with it just because it couldn't be definitively proven that it was him doing it, in spite of the fact that, away from the Sentinels, he was bragging about his misdeeds. And all of that trouble had come to a screeching halt without a word spoken.

"Well," Gordon said with a little smirk and a sparkle in his eyes as he leaned toward Bruce and lowered his voice. "It was that Logan boy that finally made him stop. Gibney got a little handsy with one of the young ladies in town in front of him, and Logan dragged him out back and beat him into a pulp. My witnesses say that he had a few choice words for him as he did, too."

"So he stopped a criminal," Bruce surmised, nodding lightly.

"He didn't just stop him, he put him in the hospital, Bruce." Gordon said with a serious expression. "Broke both of his hands, one of his knees, did massive damage to his face, and smashed his vocal cords. Most Gibney can manage now is almost a growl and a few monosyllabic words at a time."

Bruce frowned. That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement for James if he could be that vicious. Though Bruce had to admit that he would have done the same — not the same methods, but Gibney deserved to meet a little justice, no matter what the Sentinels could or could not prove.

"The kid is a fighter, and a bit of a rabble rouser. But to be honest, I get more people telling me the good things he does trying to balance out for him when he does things he shouldn't. Like that little orphan girl last summer. Sarah was raving about that whole affair for weeks, and every time that little girl says hello to him, he gives her a little wink and a smile. Everyone's seen it." He let out a little chuckle. "Pretty sure that the women in town scared him off from how _nice _they were being to him. Kid doesn't know how to react to anyone being kind to him."

Bruce gave a self-conscious cough. He couldn't help but wonder if James would be different if the circumstances changed, if he had ignored the Old Man...

"I can show you his record if you want to take a look, but the stuff that matters is all in the notes, and if you ask the guys on the cutting crew, they'll defend him to the end," Gordon told him. "Smitty is anxious. Never seen him like this." He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "Had to stop him from beatin' some kids down that found the boy's tent." He paused and fixed a look on Bruce. "Did you know that? The kid was living in a tent this whole time? Totally illegal until his eighteenth. I can't believe it wasn't reported." He dropped his glasses on the desk in front of him. "Too late to do anything about it, but I am going to have to go out and look around. Make sure there aren't any other lost orphans hiding out in the woods jockeying for Smitty to take them under his wing."

"Is that a common problem? With Smitty, I mean," Bruce asked. It was honestly the first that he'd heard of the rough cutting foreman showing anything like a kindness that extensive to anyone. He wasn't a troublemaker, and he was respected by his men, but...

"Far as I know, Logan's the only one he's ever warmed up to," Gordon replied. "Can't understand it."

"His name is James," Bruce corrected gently.

Gordon glanced up and waved him off as he got up to get Bruce the file. "Right, of course. Just going by how we know him best."

* * *

For the next few days, Bruce watched the broadcasts when he could — and when he wasn't doing that, he was asking around to see what he could learn about the young man from those that knew him more than just in passing, but that wasn't the easiest thing in the world. Most of the people James knew were working deeply in the woods, and there was no good explanation as to why the illustrious Bruce Wayne might be that far out into the working class.

But he went anyhow.

He didn't get terribly far with anyone before he came up on the cutting foreman. John Smith wasn't the most friendly of sorts to those he didn't already know, and Bruce was well aware of that — if not by reputation, then by the way that the man was looking at him as he approached. Tall and broad, Smitty crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watched Bruce.

"You got no business out here," Smitty told him. "So you best turn around and go on back to your big house and play detective or whatever it is you're up to these days."

"I only wanted to ask about James," Bruce said, both hands held out, palms up.

Smitty narrowed his eyes at him in a hard glare. "What the hell do you care about him for all of a sudden?" He uncrossed his arms and took a few steps closer to Bruce. "You one of those jackasses that wanna bet against him too? Lookin' for insider info to help your chances?" His voice and temper were clearly rising until his voice was booming through the trees. "Get the hell outta here. I'm not gonna help you make a buck on his hide."

"That's not… you misunderstand."

But Smitty wasn't going to have it. He clearly had no intentions to entertain Bruce for anything. Instead of allowing him the chance to explain, the big lumberjack simply turned around and left him standing with a shouted warning for him to clear out or go a round with him bare-knuckled.

* * *

Bruce was agitated over the next couple of days, so much so that by the time they announced the scores for the tributes, he was almost fidgety. Again, he called Fury to find out more — to get some inside intel — anything that would help him unravel his little mystery.

"What did he do to score a seven?" Bruce had asked, and after some hemming and hawing about how he couldn't divulge that information, finally, Fury called him back — on a more secured line, and only as a favor.

"Officially, in the assessments?" Fury said. "Not a damn thing."

Bruce was quiet, frowning as his mind went a mile a minute. "Unofficially?"

"He broke Victor Creed's nose and put him on notice," Fury said. "None of the judges missed the two black eyes and the swollen, purple face. Not a one. And they weren't swayed by the boy's refusal to demonstrate any useful skills beyond intimidation." There was a pause. "I can't tell you anything else. You'll just have to wait like the others to see what comes of it."

The line went dead, and Bruce was left staring at the phone for a moment, anger bubbling up again at yet another person blowing him off entirely. He simply wasn't used to being treated this callously.

He was still in a foul mood when the interviews aired that night. But he wasn't watching alone. From time to time, Helena had come in and silently sat with him, occasionally resting a hand on his arm in solidarity, but it was never something that she'd stuck around for. Just a moment or two to let him know that she was there. Concerned for him.

For the interviews, the two of them sat through the whole affair, disgust etched on their features almost in mirror reflection as Tivan tore down one tribute after another with a grin. Neither of them spoke, but as James came out — and boldly corrected Tivan on his name — Bruce had to smirk slightly. He was learning that few people were going to recognize him by his given name. And it was clear that James was trying to put that all behind him too. A separation from his roots.

Bruce was just opening his mouth to say how well he thought James was handling the interview when the tone shifted and Tivan hit him with Silver Fox. James had recovered from the shock quickly enough, but when the broadcast broke normal protocol and replayed in graphic, stunning detail Fox's death, Bruce let out a sound that came from deep in his chest.

The only shocking part after that was the speed with which James got himself off the stage.

"That was low," Helena said quietly, and Bruce nodded his agreement. She glanced his way and rested a hand on his shoulder, but for the first time, he shrugged it away. The girl pulled her hand back quickly, as if she had been shocked by his touch, and slowly got up to leave.

He didn't know how to explain to her that he felt so _helpless_. And it was not a feeling he was at all used to. How to explain to her nearly a decade of old guilt…

He sighed just softly enough that she paused. "Get some sleep," Helena said finally, giving her father a pointed look before she squeezed his wrist and left him to his thoughts.

* * *

Bruce was up before dawn the day of the launch. There was no telling where the tributes would be taken. No telling when the launch was actually going to happen. All he knew was that it was the first day that his old friend's only son was going to be in a fight for his life. And he couldn't touch the tea in front of him for the lump in his throat.

He watched the start, almost holding his breath, unsure of how anything was going to go down. He wasn't expecting the vicious fight right at the start — and he wasn't expecting to watch James walk away injured that quickly, after having left the Career that had attacked him breathing. It was a mad mixture of contradictions.

But when it seemed that James had it all under control, he let out a breath and forced himself away from the television. He couldn't possibly watch all of it. Not only because it was a long — possibly weeks-long — affair, but because he couldn't stand to _watch _it. He was used to being the one to try to _do _something. And just standing by while the execution of twenty-three kids went on in front of him was just not something that Bruce was capable of doing.

He was on his feet before he realized it, and he headed out of the house, in search of some fresh air and some distance. He was in the town square before he took stock of his surroundings. And already the buzz was loud around town with the showing that had happened that morning.

Barbara Gordon was going from one person to the next, gathering up donations. Already, the citizens of Seven were pulling together to try and back the boy. And he didn't see anyone holding back from the pool either. The talk was going around. Everyone had an opinion. Half of them seemed to think he needed medicine — the other half were pushing for a weapon, since the guys from the cutters crew that were in town insisted that the last thing he'd need help with was finding a bite to eat or fresh water.

But by the time that Bruce returned to the manor, Alfred looked pale and very quietly informed him of what he'd missed. That James had already taken down one of his competitors and didn't seem to do so much as look back before he disappeared into the cracked cityscape.

He didn't ask for elaboration. He was sure that it would be replayed at some point, but more than that, he was just flat-out disappointed. One day in and the boy was already a murderer.

Over the next few days, Bruce kept the broadcast on in the background. He wasn't very surprised to find that James was working to refine his makeshift weaponry. His method was rough, but… when the cameras showed the two tributes coming closer to where he was working away, Bruce would have been lying if he said he wasn't holding his breath.

He was reasonably sure that the two sweet kids from the outer districts weren't a direct threat, but…he didn't know how James would react. Not after the way he'd apparently taken down the Ten girl. He frowned deeply as James charged the two of them suddenly, but let out all of his breath after seeing the boy relax and get downright friendly with the younger tributes.

He propped his head in the palm of his hand and watched the nonverbal cues going on between the three of them. And the hollow irritation James had as he half glared at his two new allies before they started taking care of him. _He's not afraid to take help from people younger than him._

The camaraderie was genuine. And natural. And the three of them fell into an easy-looking rhythm together without discussing it. He was even putting up with the light teasing the younger girl was giving him, though he thought it was a little odd the way that the cameras were cutting. Dialogue was being spoken when no one was speaking — and he was sure that they were replaying parts where the young woman from Twelve was blushing out of context, not just around the Nine boy but James as well, playing it up like there was conflict on the horizon already despite their easy, natural friendship.

He watched their alliance strengthen as they worked together as a team, finding himself both more relaxed and more nervous as time wore on. It was clear that the Career pack had James high on their hit list, and Bruce found himself wondering what it was that James had done or said to rate so high.

"Something on your mind, sir?" Alfred asked as he brought Bruce his dinner in the office. It was clear that mixing business with viewing was taking a toll on Bruce's business dealings.

"Just trying to figure out the nicknames," Bruce said, frowning lightly. "I don't understand where they came from. It doesn't seem to make sense."

Alfred was smirking to himself but didn't say more as he left him alone to watch. Bruce had work to do — and things with that little group of kids seemed to be winding down, which really just gave him a chance to do what it was that he'd been ignoring over the past few days.

With the broadcast going on in the background, Bruce went over his papers and figures. He worked diligently but glanced up from time to time just to see what was happening. He was just about to call it a night when the spiders attacked the little group, and Bruce found himself with his hands balled into fists for the duration of the fight. He didn't relax until it was clear that all three of them were safe, sound, and unharmed.

This was getting to be hard to deal with. The two kids that James had made friends with were _good kids._ And he could see, even though James tried to be gruff about it, that he was trying to take care of them — or at the very least look out for their well being.

That was only reinforced the next day when Bruce came down late for dinner to find Dick and Helena discussing the pipe-staves that Kate Bishop had just gotten from James — and whether or not they would be as effective as the real thing.

Bruce watched them, listening to their arguments as he poured himself some tea and made his way over to his usual seat.

"Whatd'ya think, Bruce?" Dick asked. "Probably couldn't take _me, _but for a girl her age and an _archer _like Hel here…" He raised an eyebrow Helena's way, obviously baiting his sister.

"She could put you in your place with how little _you've _practiced," Helena said without looking up.

Bruce looked up with one eyebrow raised as he set his teacup down with a smirk. "I think she might just surprise you given the right setting," Bruce said evenly. "The girl can fight. She's scrappy."

"Yeah, but _staves, _Bruce. Come on," Dick laughed.

Bruce tempered his smirk as best he was able. "Staves can be very effective in the right hands. Yours — maybe not so much. Your sister's right. More practice."

Dick put a hand over his heart and looked wounded before he broke into a hearty laugh. "Hear that, Hel? Bruce says I'm no good at staves. Guess I should stop practicing and give it up for something fun like surfing. Know any beaches?"

"Good luck catching a wave unless you go to the river when they drop in the logs," she countered, undisturbed by the teasing between them.

"Yeah, good point. What do you think, then, maybe I can do what Bruce does and party for a living…"

Bruce was back to watching the Games and ignoring the back-and-forth between Dick and Helena — the three kids were off on a hunt for spiders, apparently. The two younger kids on screen were telling riddles and teasing each other as they followed a silent and very focused James deeper and deeper into the spider's nest.

"Hey, Bruce, you were right," Dick called out as he watched Kate and Kurt best a few spiders together — it looked like the staves were holding up nicely.

"Not something you say every day," Bruce muttered quietly.

"Well, not every day you _speak._ With _us_. Like a human. I am running with it," Dick declared, grinning widely.

But Bruce was ignoring the jab as he watched the three kids, half covered in spider guts and webbing. Whoever it was wrapped up in webs was a lost cause. Which made it all the more interesting when James slung the boy's body over his shoulder and the four of them headed out — battling their way out of the nest, and covering each other's backs.

"What in the world are they doing?" Bruce almost breathed out.

"It appears as though they are saving another young man," Alfred said clearly. "Perhaps we've missed a few key points in their broadcasts."

But the broadcast moved on quickly to other groups — the little group rescuing another tribute that was dead to rights obviously not the kind of message the Capitol wanted aired — so it wasn't until the next day that they even got to see the little group again. And then it was as silver parachutes were drifting down on the breeze.

James's commentary about how he doubted he'd earned any sponsors just got Bruce wondering what it was going to take to do just that. He knew what Barbara Gordon had raised for him — and resolutely decided to pitch in whatever might have been needed to cover anything else — but the only thing that happened when he decided to act on that decision was that Bruce was left in a near rage, pacing a path in the carpet. He was perfectly willing and ready to throttle Victor Creed with his bare hands if need be.

The phone call had been short, and Creed had even hung up on him before Bruce could reply. He said the district wanted to donate, and before he could ask what the figure was…

"That's not going to happen," Creed said in almost a low purr. "The runt hasn't done anything to deserve any help. Don't waste your time; I'm not gonna waste mine."

The line went dead, and Bruce was left _staring _at the receiver, open-mouthed at how blatantly malicious and spiteful Creed was acting. As if he _wanted _the boy to die. With a frustrated noise, he slammed the phone down and paced a few short turns before he headed off to _try _to get rid of the frustration that was building.

* * *

Bruce was still seething the next day. He had to step away from this mess of a Games. It was doing nothing for his blood pressure, and with every turn, all that happened was Bruce found new and impressive ways to feel helpless. And if he was going to be left feeling like that … he didn't want any part of it.

The Games still played in the background as he worked — something that he just couldn't ignore. He was determined to know as much as he could of what happened to young James during this…disaster. But he was making a real effort to make sure it was _only_ in the background.

So he was surprised when the sound — the talking that had been going on in a different group of kids — fell into silence and the sounds of the forest. He stopped and looked up with a frown and was immediately transfixed as he watched the boy stalking silently through the trees. He wondered for a moment if he'd missed something… if this was a murder he'd have to watch John's son commit…. only to let out a little 'oh' as the doe came into focus. His strike was swift — and he moved like he belonged in the wild.

Bruce sat back, almost breathless. "The tribe," he said quietly. He smiled the smallest bit as he thought he had figured out exactly _how _young James had managed to survive in the woods — and how he had managed to get engaged to one of the tribal members. It made sense.

Once the deer was down, James and Kate worked quickly to butcher it out. He watched as they made their way to their new hideout, the skies darkening and the wind picking up around them. Time was slipping past, and the little alliance was still strong.

Bruce couldn't help but wonder how long it could last. If it remained intact, it would be several of them facing off and forced to fight each other. "What is your strategy here?" Bruce muttered to the screen as the kids settled in for their meal.

He shook his head and flipped off the television. As much as he was pulling for the young man, he needed a break from it. It was emotionally draining, and he simply felt as though he couldn't afford it.

He spent the next day or so making sure that there were no screens on anywhere he went. But his production level was still low. He fought the urge to flip on the show and see what was happening, convinced for the time being that maybe it wouldn't be as bad if he just heard what was happening after the fact…but it nibbled at the fringe of his thoughts until the ragged edge was tattered and an absolute distraction.

He nearly growled to himself as he caved to the impulse and turned on the screen, only to be completely confused at what he saw. Kate — the lone girl of the little alliance — was with one of the Careers. Just the two of them — the two archers, almost playfully enjoying the city together. He frowned and settled in, wondering what exactly had happened to have split the tight-knit group.

When he saw the two younger boys from the alliance quietly making their way through the city streets, he stopped. What had happened? There was no running tally of who was gone, and the little foursome was not only broken, but James was completely missing from them, as far as he could tell.

It took some time for the perspective to switch to a different group, and when it did, Bruce was even more confused when it showed James with an entirely different group of tributes. And getting along with them nearly as well as he had his first little group.

They were looking after another injured tribute, and as he was watching, trying to make heads or tails of it, Alfred came in.

"It seems that young Master James has an affinity for helping the injured," Alfred said in a conversational tone.

"Oh?" Bruce said, trying not to look too invested in what was happening on the other side of the continent.

"They replayed it early this morning. There was a large group, working in concert to topple a giant robot. James and the gentle young man from Six patched a boy up. It was quite refreshing against all that suffering." He didn't say more than that as he left Bruce his tea and simply exited the room, smirking to himself at the pleased expression on Bruce's face.

Bruce nodded to himself, content at least with that bit of news as he went back to work, the show in the background low. He wasn't surprised in the least by that time to see James skip over the opportunity to let his new teammates poison themselves, instead discarding the problematic vegetation — and even explaining to the other young man what the problem was.

_He has no trouble teaching them how to survive either_, Bruce thought to himself, _even if it ends up helping what should be a rival. _

He didn't watch again that evening. The niggling feeling of doubt and guilt pricking at his consciousness made him try to distance himself again. He couldn't afford to get invested. Particularly if the boy was going to die. And at this point in the game, if James had decided to back away from getting rid of rivals — fixing them up instead — he knew which way it was bound to go.

So he was confused again the next day to find the residents of the house immersed in the broadcast while James and the tall blonde from Five tracked their way through the city — with James tensed and leading the way, ready to fight every step.

"They're _avenging _a murder," Dick said through a mouthful of his lunch. "Fitting for the Avenger Games, don't you think?" But Bruce just gave him a dry look and settled in to watch.

The time difference was enough that the live feed was well into their hunt, and it was just a bit after lunchtime when both boys on screen looked ready to fight — only to deflate when they met up with the other younger boys from James' first group, going from a near death blow to a side hug in an instant.

"No hard feelings there," Helena said in an observational tone. "Even with a failed attack."

"Didn't you hear the Nine kid? Guy likes a circus. How can you _not _like him?" Dick asked, gesturing at the screen.

"It still doesn't explain his ridiculous nickname," she pointed out.

"Show biz, Hel. You gotta make it memorable."

"Except _he_ gave it to the 'Elf'," she said tipping her cup at the screen. "Explain that, circus brat."

"Gee, I thought you and Bruce were the detectives in the family. Do I gotta do all the work?"

She just smirked to herself, ignoring his commentary outside of just nodding his way for his confirmation.

* * *

The Wayne family had sat down to breakfast — it was quickly becoming a thing for this Games for them to sit down in the morning to watch. Dick's commentary was enough to put the others in a good mood for the day — even if they didn't want to admit it.

They weren't quite paying attention to the screen until the focus cut away suddenly. It had been on the little group of boys that had apparently taken someone out. The decision had just been made that they were going looking for their last missing member. The easy camaraderie was a breath of fresh air that late in the Games. And a wonderful thing to see first thing in the morning.

But it was Helena that saw it first. "This can't possibly be good," she said as the buzzing sound filled the speaker.

The group of them watched; all motion in the room ceased as the boys on screen ran — and failed to reach the lake. They watched as they got stung, over and over. They watched as the boys obviously hallucinated — and Alfred very suddenly switched it off a few short moments after James skewered his friend and Kurt forgave him. But Bruce had seen the shock on both of their faces. The instant regret and horror at what James had done.

"The effects will last hours," Alfred said curtly. "No reason to watch while they're so … out of sorts." He swept from the room, clearly upset, and it was obvious that the butler didn't want to watch a moment longer.

He was right of course, but all it really did was set up Bruce to continually keep it on once he left the dining room.

He kept glancing up through the day, watching the progress of the other two boys and a handful of other tributes left in the Game still. It wasn't until much later — when the sun was starting to sink in the sky that Bruce sat down properly to watch. There hadn't been a transport for anyone else. So it had to be a matter of time before they went back to James and his friends — or what was left of them. Bruce hadn't said a word all day, anticipating a poor reaction from the young man when he finally woke up.

But it was James' reaction that he was most keenly interested in despite the sinking feeling. Helena had come to join him, sitting to his right, her hand on his wrist again — a reassuring gesture that she'd learned from her mother years ago. He glanced down at her hand and nodded once her way before he covered her hand with his for a moment.

When they cut away back to where James was just starting to revive, it was clear that the Capitol was anticipating his reaction just as much as Bruce was.

It was touch and go, both encouraging and very upsetting. The fact that Bruce could clearly see that James had openly discarded his weapons after he came upon the younger boy's corpse had him concerned. He could almost see the wheels turning as James looked over his friend's broken body. But he wasn't expecting how James handled saying goodbye.

When the 'Elf' was gone, the camera stuck to James, obviously expecting something more, but he didn't betray his thoughts in the least. When he finally seemed to steel himself for … something, Bruce let out his breath. Whatever it was that was going on with him, he'd made up his mind about something. He looked determined. Like he was back to hunting.

And then the screen split for a moment to show two different silver parachutes. This time, it was Dick that broke the silence.

"Why are they sending stuff to him _now_? Isn't that kind of twisted?"

Bruce didn't even realize he'd breathed out 'Creed' until Helena turned his way with a frown.

He frowned as he watched James pause, clearly suspicious of the box. And even though Dick chuckled at him correcting the voice on his name, and offering a tapdance if they quit calling him 'James', Bruce was laser focused on what was going on. This didn't look normal. _Don't take it_, he was thinking, though his jaw was locked and his eyes narrowed. _It's just trouble. _

It was almost like the boy had heard him too by the way he was openly considering walking away from it, but obviously, curiosity won out, and he almost grudgingly picked up the package. They watched as he took the thing to a quiet-looking spot, though it was hard to tell what it was until the light on the screen adjusted.

When Victor Creed's voice began to come through the speakers though — crystal clear, and obviously not as James was hearing it, Bruce's head turned slightly, as if he was making sure one ear was closer to the speaker, his eyes still locked on the screen. It took no time at all to see that the footage was severely edited. And all of Bruce's instincts were screaming at him over the lack of full information.

But listening to what _was _being broadcast, watching James' reaction — the cogs were starting to turn, and what he came up with had his blood boiling. Even without having dealt with Creed personally, it was easy enough to fill in the blanks, and add to that what he knew about the man and what he knew from Gordon — and it wasn't long at all before Bruce was practically holding his breath, just waiting for the broadcast to switch to a different tribute, making sure he stayed to get _all _the information he knew he needed.

When it did switch, back to the blonde from Five, well after James had laid waste to the entire cooler, Bruce got up in one smooth movement. He didn't turn off the television, didn't make much of a move to do anything but get out of the room. His breathing was barely controlled, and he was a step away from hitting something as he strode quickly toward the door.

Dick had moved to follow him, obviously concerned, but when he put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, Bruce spun as he shoved Dick's hand off, eyes narrowed. "_Stay the hell out of my way_," he shouted, louder than he'd meant to, before he stalked out the door, slamming it hard enough that he could hear something on the other side rattle and break.

He stormed up to his office to call up ... someone. Anyone. Gordon, Fury, Creed himself. Someone was going to catch it for this. He didn't have much of a plan other than that he was _going _to do something about it, though when the second call to Fury just got him a polite underling named Coulson, Bruce didn't feel the least bit better for giving the SHIELD agent a piece of his mind. The guy probably didn't have the jurisdiction or clearance to do a thing about it — and with no one else taking his calls except Gordon, who "was well-aware" of the situation but couldn't do a thing about it with no evidence and no living victim or witness… well. It just left Bruce madder than before.

There just wasn't a thing he could _do_, so finally, he slammed the phone into the receiver, let out a noise of disgust, and headed out to the grounds. He needed to hit something, and since it was getting dark, he was sure he could find someone Gordon and his Sentinels would appreciate finding in the morning.

* * *

Bruce was almost feeling like himself again when he came down to coffee the next morning. Not just one or two but three thugs found themselves tied to the front post of the foreman's office. They'd been picking on someone much smaller than themselves, all of them were tipsy, and all of them were, frankly, belligerent. So he didn't feel bad in the least when the first one took a swing at him. It was almost like the guy was giving him permission.

Again, the Games were playing in the background — as they were more often than not at this point. And again, Bruce tried to ignore them. At least a little bit. He glanced up at the screen, noted that James was nowhere in sight, and refocused his attention to his coffee.

"He's still in it, you know," Dick said quietly. "You didn't miss anything ... while you were gone."

Bruce nodded his head, not quite up to speaking quite yet.

"Kinda quiet, actually," Dick continued.

"Unlike you," Helena murmured into her breakfast.

Dick shot her a dry look and then turned Bruce's way. "You know, if you want, me and Hel can watch the coverage. You've got better things to do, right? We'll let you know if something's up?"

Bruce turned Dick's way and couldn't help the little smile — though it was muted even for him. "It's something I need to do myself."

"You don't _need_ to," Helena said softly.

Bruce met her gaze but didn't answer, instead simply raising his coffee to his lips as the screen across the room changed to Kate now — with a familiar silver box in her hands. He set his cup down and narrowed his eyes. "Did they all get one?"

Dick glanced back at the screen and frowned at it. "Might be? The others in the group that went after Cletus all got 'em, so it looks like it's a growing trend."

Bruce settled in — if you could call it that — sitting stock straight and staring at the screen as Kate got comfortable and tried to answer the box with a bit of sass. But when the video played, it was obvious that it too had been severely edited.

There was no buzzing, for one. And no sign of any of the tracker jackers that had spiraled this mess out of control. The girl didn't even get five seconds into the video before Bruce had it figured out — and he was right back to just as mad as he'd been the night before. When the video ended, and Kate made her promise for the camera, all eyes were on Bruce as the sound of a cup breaking echoed the room.

The rest of the videos were no better. The Gamemakers were lying through their teeth to all of the tributes left — except Bruce was sure that James' video was genuine.

* * *

He watched over the next couple of days as all of the kids went hunting — or hiding — though he noted that James was irritatingly hard to spot on camera. He wondered if the boy was doing it on purpose. He watched as the other boy in James' alliance — the first one he'd rescued — died at the hands of a nightmarish mutt, saving two of the boys from James' _other _alliance from a torturous death. These were incredibly noble kids. Freely sacrificing themselves to save their comrades. This year was going to be awful to watch the finale. Nothing good could possibly come from such a group.

He watched as Kate — misguided and manipulated Kate — transformed into a single-minded hunter, with only James in her mind as quarry, trying to use his strengths against him. And that had him worried for both of them. Her trap was triggered, and he stared, sure that she'd managed to catch her ex-ally. And for the first time that Bruce could remember, he let out a sigh of relief when he saw that it was instead, a wily Career. He wasn't sure how good the girl was — and he really didn't want to see her facing off with James, not only from the angle that they were once allies, but the fact was she was just so small in comparison. But when she took down the Career, he had to take pause.

And unmercifully, he was upset, of course, to see that the final four ended up being all allies of James from one group or another. It would have been easier had one of them been villainous.

* * *

It had been a solid two weeks — one of the longer Games in recent memory — and the Wayne household was once again having a meal as, finally, James came into view. Where the other tributes looked peaked and dehydrated, James hadn't seemed to have lost much, and the injuries he'd been carrying seemed to be all but healed. Even the stings were down to vaguely red spots.

It only took a moment or two of watching him to see that the young man was tracking — though his gaze wasn't locked on the obvious blood trail in front of him. He was following the trail in his peripheral vision, keeping an eye out for anyone that might be tracking him too. _Good, _Bruce thought to himself when he saw it. _He's not short-sighted. He can see that he needs to be aware still. _

But the memory of Kate laying out a trail for him to follow was still fresh in Bruce's mind.

James' scuffle with the apes at the end of the blood trail was primal. Brutal. And fast. Bruce watched with a very concerned look on his face as James descended into what amounted to a wild animal as he fought with actual beasts — and showed them who the alpha was. It was disturbing to witness.

But not as disturbing as what came after.

The young man's path crossed with the ally that he'd picked shrapnel from — and the fight didn't last long before Iron Man fell at James' feet to the sound of cannon fire, though Stark didn't leave him unscathed. And there wasn't much time between that and the fight with the longshot of the four left: the kind young man from Six that was suffering from radiation poisoning.

There were several points in that scuffle that had Bruce watching with one hand over his mouth, unsure if James was going to be able to get out of the fight. The sound of breaking bones was clear — and every hit from the scientist counted hard against the young man from Seven. Of all the scuffles he'd gotten into, this unassuming looking young man was taking more out of James than all of them combined.

He could see the pain clearly on James' face, and with every hit, Bruce was struck with fresh regret and a whole new wave of '_what if_'.

By the time James got in a lucky shot to bleed out Banner, it was no longer a cut and dried affair of him getting out alive. Banner had done him severe damage. And if Kate was in fair shape ... she had a real shot at killing him. Especially if she saw him coming.

"If they meet up close, he'll win," Bruce said, finally turning toward Alfred. "But if she sees him approaching…"

"There is nothing that you could have done to change things, Master Bruce," Alfred told him wisely. "He was not your charge. He took his own path long ago."

"Not by his choice though," Bruce countered with a flash behind his eyes. "Even there, now, he's not been given a choice in anything."

The view on screen shifted suddenly — and the two men watched as the tall blonde and Kate crossed paths. Bruce almost didn't watch, convinced that Kate would simply stick him full of arrows, retrieve them, and continue her search. But when he heard the sound of the arrow clanging off of the shield, he paused and turned his attention back to the screen freshly.

Bruce and Alfred watched in horror as Kate fought ... and failed to beat back the tall, bulky blonde. It wasn't right — how one-sided the fight was when it was up close. The girl simply didn't have the strength in hand-to-hand against that much larger of an opponent. But she was viciously dirty in the fight for her life.

How injured the girl was versus how nearly intact the boy was came into play quickly. He was so much larger and stronger, but still, Kate managed to take him down one peg after another — just not quickly enough. Bruce was shocked at how heartless the Five boy had become, even though he was apologizing to her as he held her down to end her. And when she finally let loose a heartbreaking scream for help — for Logan — Bruce had to sit down with one hand over his mouth.

The cannonfire was almost overpowered by the sudden appearance of the bright blue light and the wide, sweeping camera angle to show it off properly.

The cut back to James was almost abrupt — and it was obvious how injured he was for the slow pace he was taking heading toward the blue light that was washing over the arena. It wasn't a fair fight. And Bruce could see the apprehension on James' face all the way up until he spotted the bloodied shield.

Once again, the Capitol editing team must have been having a ball. Dramatic music swelled, obscuring the conversation the boys were having. Hard cuts showed clearly that parts of the fight were edited out entirely.

Kate had taken sizeable chunks out of Rogers, but James was certainly worse for the wear between the two of them. More than once, Bruce very nearly switched it off, convinced that James had lost. But just as he'd reach for the knob, James managed to reverse it on the tall blonde. It was still clear, though. Rogers was stronger. And less injured.

But James was a dirtier fighter. He'd have to be at his size. In the end, the roller coaster ended with James stabbing his old ally in the back — quite literally — before he collapsed next to him, entirely exhausted and almost as unable to breathe as the boy bleeding out on the concrete.

Rogers' last words were obscured, and as James closed his eyes, he was declared the victor — and the footage shifted to a wide angle as the medics rushed in.

Bruce leaned back, his shoulders relaxing substantially as he let out all of his breath. He'd managed to win. Without any outside help. That part of it … that was exceedingly rare. Even Creed had gotten a spile from a sponsor before he began tearing through better than half the field of his competitors.

He flipped the television off and pressed his fingers to his temples. By some miracle, it was over, and John's son hadn't been murdered. But Bruce would be lying to himself if he didn't acknowledge that the boy had to be changed. He was really only concerned by _how _changed he was now. The misery he'd dealt with growing up was bad enough on its own, but now he'd have to live with all the blood on his hands.

The room was silent as the younger occupants shared a look, until finally Helena broke the silence. "It seems we have a new Seven victor then."

Bruce nodded, already considering his next steps. He didn't need to concern himself with watching the next few days, though he was anxious to see how much damage the Capitol would allow to remain permanent on the boy. There was so much to choose from. Bruce shook his head as he mentally catalogued all that he could _see_. Internal bleeding for sure. He knew there were broken bones, and from how the boy was shaking his head, there were likely major concussive issues. He frowned, wondering how much of his personality would change if the swelling and bruising was too extensive. They may just end up with another psychopath if there was enough cerebral damage.

He was on his feet before he'd realized it, making his way through the manor and thinking to himself on everything that had gone on. He really didn't need to worry about it any further. James had managed to win. What he needed to do now was figure out if the boy was going to be a problem, or if he needed help when he got back to Seven, because honestly, he still felt as if he should be watching out for him.

* * *

As was traditional, the night of the interview, the screens across Marvel all automatically tuned in when the show was set to start. There was no choice in it. It was something that was required to be watched — or at least, you weren't able to watch anything else.

Bruce and the rest of the residents of Wayne Manor all settled in together. It had been a hard Games to watch. For some more than others, obviously. Still, the overall feeling in Wayne Manor seemed to be one of cautious optimism. Or something close to it.

The show began simply enough. James looked uncomfortable as he came out, frowning at the crowd as they cheered raucously. Bruce smirked when he clearly read James's lips about how he hadn't avenged his lost love _yet._ So Creed had trouble coming. Somehow, Bruce wasn't surprised, but the thought had him smirking.

They started the recap from the beginning, flickering from one tribute to the next, and as they did so, James looked off his guard, something that Bruce was sure wasn't a common occurrence. Whatever it was had to have hit a nerve, but it was quickly apparent that the editing team wasn't sure what exactly they had done to elicit such a response, and James wasn't giving Tivan anything.

The subject quickly went to James' friend, the Elf. And Bruce could almost feel the daggers through the screen as James glared Tivan's way, daring him to say something over the line.

Dick burst out laughing when James challenged Tivan — asking if he felt friendly after pointing out he stabbed his friends. "Oh, please be friends," Dick chuckled. "Please. Televise _that._"

But Bruce watched with a deepening frown as Tivan tried first to paint up the friendship that James had with Kate as a failed romance — which made no sense, even with the scads of 'evidence' that the Gamemakers had amassed. If they were lovers, or something like it, why in the world would Kate have had such a vendetta against James for killing Kurt? He shook his head — shy smiles and friendly expressions and gestures aside, it looked to Bruce more like a big brother situation than a romantic one.

But when the video played that showed James and Peter Parker's bet … Bruce let out a disbelieving noise. Was that all it was? A bet that had kept that group together? It was unprecedented. But at worst, all it meant was that James was a man of his word. Bruce frowned to himself. If that was the case, why didn't he kill Peter when they met up after getting separated? Why didn't he take the chance when they had the maniac from Ten on the ropes? It … didn't add up either.

But the narrative tried to shift back to James and Kate again, and James was clearly denying it hard until they showed the timestamps on how close the two had been to finding each other over and over again. James looked openly disappointed, and then completely sideswiped as he heard the fight that had taken Kate's life. It was clear the boy didn't want to see it but couldn't help but watch. And in the end, he was entirely unapologetic, ending the interview looking — and sounding — like one of the bad ones.

Bruce sat back with a sigh. The whole thing had been exhausting.

"I shall make the preparations," Alfred said suddenly, and it rushed back to Bruce that there would be a celebration in the boy's honor — there, at Wayne Manor.

"You may want to check, Alfred," Bruce said suddenly, stopping the butler in his tracks. "I wouldn't be surprised in the least if the old man tried to use this as a way to assert his claim."

"Oh no, sir," Alfred said seriously, his head tipped ever so slightly to the side. "That simply isn't going to be the case. I spoke with Mrs. Hopkins just this morning. Mister Howlett has no plans to do any such thing. I'm sure you have no idea where he might have gotten such an impression, Master Bruce." He paused with a perfectly serious expression before he and Bruce met each other's gazes, and when Bruce shook his head, Alfred turned on his heel with a smirk.

* * *

The victory party at Wayne Manor was much like anything Bruce had hosted there before for special occasions — the only difference was the amount and types of people there, with a few more Capitolites than usual. But as always, the food was good, the drinks were excellent, and the gossip flowed freely, most of which Bruce tried to ignore as he made his way over to where James had tried to station himself away from as many people as possible. But obviously, that simply wasn't going to last any time at all, dark corners included.

"Mind if I join you?" Bruce asked.

The young man glanced up at him for a moment, then looked out toward the mulling crowd for an instant. "Your house."

Bruce tipped his head the slightest bit in acknowledgement, though he found he didn't quite know which question to ask first over his welfare. "It must be nice to be home," he said instead.

"I guess," he replied, staring at the melting ice in his glass — the drink had been untouched so far.

Bruce cleared his throat after a moment's silence. "You'll let me know if you need anything, won't you?"

"I don't need a thing."

"Of course not," Bruce said with a little frown, frustrated by the lack of any answers — and worried by it. But when it seemed that James had nothing further to say than a few monosyllables and the barest responses, he finally sighed and took his leave, this time to find Jim Gordon.

Gordon saw him coming and paused his conversation for a moment when he saw the look on Bruce's face, and he stepped aside with a concerned expression, only for Bruce to mutter to him, "Keep an eye on James, would you?"

"Something in particular catch you as problematic?" Gordon asked, frowning past Bruce to where James had tried, again, to disappear into the crowd.

"I've just seen that look before," Bruce said simply. "Just watch out for him, alright?"

"Of course," Gordon replied. "Should I have you down as the contact then if something goes south? Because I don't mind telling you, Smitty has already said he wants to keep an eye on him too."

Bruce paused, thinking of the way Smitty had shouted him down when he tried to ask about James. "Yes," he said at last. He turned to leave, paused, and added, "But feel free to tell him after I come down."

"Consider it done," Gordon replied. "You're a bit easier to get in touch with anyhow."

Bruce smirked at that and nodded. "Well, don't let me keep you," he said, gesturing to the group Gordon had left as he headed off, intending to find solitude of his own, though again, he didn't get far before Dick fell into step beside him with a perfectly open and innocent expression that meant trouble.

"Gee, Bruce. It must be _so hard _to talk to someone so _quiet_," he said as if he was truly worried about it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce replied in an almost airy tone.

"You sure don't," Dick agreed with a grin.

Bruce stopped and turned his way, completely unamused. "Is there something you wanted, Dick?"

Dick just laughed and held up both hands. "Well, I'd say conversation, but I've got Brick Wall Number Two for a dad. And that's saying something as it is, someone else taking the number one spot... so…see you 'round, Bruce." He waved jauntily at Bruce as he turned on his heel, already headed to chat with Gordon's daughter.

It wasn't long into the gathering, though, before Alfred caught sight of James working his way toward the door, ready to ditch out and leave them to their own devices. He alerted Bruce to the situation with a surreptitious nod in James' direction, and Bruce nodded in response as he made his way toward the door.

"Who was it — Vicki or Jezebel?" he asked James with a small smirk.

"What?"

"That's usually when I start to head out to the gardens, so which one was it that cornered you?" Bruce asked.

James just shifted in place for a moment as he tried to remember who it was but instead shook his head. "Just looking for some air."

"Mind if I join you? I could use some myself," Bruce offered.

He let out a sigh. "Wasn't planning on just going to the gardens," James admitted.

Bruce frowned at that. "Then I'm sorry to hear we've chased you out already," he said honestly. He let his shoulders drop. "Why don't we just walk to the fountain? I'm sure the mayor will be ready for his speech soon, and then I promise you can be rid of us."

"Are you serious? Another stupid speech?" He looked completely unamused before he ran his hand through his hair. "Ready for winter with all the hot air flyin' around."

Bruce smirked. "I know. I hate it too. They could say everything they need to in a few sentences and let the rest of us alone."

James glanced across the room and narrowed his eyes as he spotted Creed, looking more irritated than he'd seen him in weeks. Groot was making a point to stay close to him, and Rocket, his raccoon mutt companion, was growling low at him. "This isn't going to end well."

Bruce followed his gaze and had to nod his agreement. "Would you please tell Sentinel Gordon I want to speak with him?" he said without taking his gaze from Creed as he headed that way.

"What for?" James asked. "Won't stop anything. And he's going to need the time to heal up before the cameras come around again."

"Yes, but if he's going to start something on my property, I can have Gordon let him 'heal' somewhere more suitable."

"He won't," James said, shaking his head. "Too many people. Too many witnesses. It'll be an ambush in the dark somewhere. I know his type."

Bruce turned to face James and frowned. "You seem to know more than that."

James shrugged lightly. "Been listening to threats for a few days now. Gettin' tired of it. And he's too much of a coward to try for a square fight. Especially one he knows he'd lose."

Bruce smiled almost approvingly for a moment, though it was quick enough James didn't see it. "Yes, well, he's been that way for as long as I've known him, and unfortunately, he's required to keep coming to my house."

"What'd you do to get stuck with the short end of that stick?" James asked, finally turning his way. "Thought it was a shared misery situation."

"You're assuming the old man on the hill will actually do his fair share…" Bruce trailed off and shook his head. "It's a matter of a pair of old men who don't get along. Don't worry about it."

"No one gets along with him," he replied quietly.

"Maybe that's why he never hosts any parties," Bruce said with a small smirk.

"Figured he was just enough of a pain in the ass no one wanted to deal with him." James looked more irritated before he tipped his head. "Fresh air?"

"Can't hurt," Bruce agreed.

As soon as the two of them were outside, James pulled a cigar and a book of matches out of his pocket and lit up, looking almost relaxed for a moment as he blew the smoke away with his eyes closed. He'd taken a few pulls before Bruce got the chance to say anything to him about it.

"I thought you wanted fresh air."

"I do," James replied before letting out another lungful of smoke. "But I didn't want to light up in the house either."

Bruce frowned at him as James leaned against the fountain, gaze to the ground and one hand resting behind him as he smoked. Bruce recognized the brand; it was unmistakably Fury's. But that suggested that not only had the boy been close enough to Fury to snag one of his cigars but either Fury hadn't noticed or hadn't cared — and the latter was not likely, in Bruce's experience.

He was going to have to call Fury again, it seemed.

They stood outside for a while before Beaubier was finally ready for his speech — the last event of the evening where either of them would be required. Bruce tipped his head toward the door. "I promise it will be relatively painless, if it's any consolation."

"It's not," he replied. "But I doubt I can get out of it."

"Neither can I, sadly," Bruce said. "My house, after all."

James tipped his head and followed him back to the crowd, though he stopped in the doorframe and leaned against the jamb with his arms crossed to listen to whatever it was that Jean-Paul had to say, again making sure to cover his bases with the bare minimum he could get away with. Almost as soon as the speech was over, James was gone, and Bruce shook his head slightly to himself.

This wasn't the same bright-eyed little boy that had followed John everywhere — but he was clearly no Creed either, as the Capitol was trying to paint him.

Bruce wasn't entirely sure where that left him, but either way, he'd be keeping a closer eye on things going forward.


End file.
